Snacks: The Musketeers
by ficklescribbler
Summary: Chapter XV: Athos has an odd relationship with wine. - A collection of Musketeers one-shots, short stories and occasional episode tags, written to flex writing muscles and/or to simply indulge. In other words, little stories to be read like one-bite snacks. All gen, all rated T and below. - On hiatus as of Jan. 2019.
1. Chapter 1

_Here be random short stories or drabbles I write/have written without prior planning._

 _My ongoing multi-chapter story is so cumbersome, I occasionally need to step away from it, flex my fingers a bit and simply indulge. And that entails a general forgoing of plot and logic; shameless unoriginality, and stuff that more often than not dangles in the air – in other words, passages from the Musketeers fandom to be read like quick snacks instead of full meals. Of couse, they will mostly be hurt/comfort. Knowing myself, most of them will be Athos-centric, but I rarely sideline the others._

 _The first one is a quick little piece I felt bad that would never develop into a full story._

( _I will so regret doing this in the morning..._ )

* * *

 **I. Escape from a battleground.**

Aramis is struggling under Athos's weight. His feet are catching on pebbles in the debris, a low crunching sound under his boots as the dirt screeches beneath their combined weight. Dust swirls in the air, filling into his eyes, and he is constantly blinking, trying to keep it out and squinting to see the camp beyond the orange mist. The air is thick, hot and sticky as he breathes in through his nostrils, his scarf unable to fully filter the particles hanging in the air. Drawing harsh breaths, he re-adjusts Athos' arm on his shoulder to get a better grip.

"Hang on," he grinds out between his teeth, his low voice muffled to the extent of incomprehensible, but the encouragement is as much for himself as it is for Athos. "Hang on my friend," he says, breathing hard, eyes fixed determinedly ahead even though he can't really see anything. "We're almost there."

There's the faintest of groans from Athos, but it is so low and gets so swallowed by the shouts and cries of the raging battle around them, Aramis might as well have imagined it. He's more dragging than aiding his friend as they trudge towards where the French camp must be, and he's painfully aware of the slick wetness in his own hand where he's struggling to grip Athos's back, soaking through the shredded linen of the wounded man's shirt. He has to be quick. For Athos's sake Aramis has to be quick.

He can feel Athos's already feeble strength drain, can feel him slumping forward, unable to propel himself onwards anymore, feet uncooperative as they drag uselessly over the dirt with Aramis' each laboured step. Aramis holds out his free hand and gently places it on Athos's chest without halting his efforts to march on; he can't have Athos fall over now, as he fears he won't be able to get his friend back to his feet. They have to reach the camp, there is no other choice, no other option. Aramis stubbornly refuses to consider the alternative.

Time ceases to exist.

He's no longer aware of the words of encouragement he's muttering between every painful breath. The dust seems only to get thicker instead of clearing out, the sounds of battle behind him don't seem to fade at all – could the battle be encroaching on them, despite the distance they must have put between themselves and the field? How long has he been struggling to get themselves in the clear now? Five minutes? Fifteen? An hour? It can't be long now. It can't be long before they reach the camp. Athos's weight has increased tenfold – is that possible at all? – and his shoulder is aching, he's automatically readjusting their balance whenever Athos slips. He's no longer feeling the wetness in his palm where it hangs onto his friend. Move on. One foot in front of the other; keep moving forward. Never stop. Never halt.

The world consists of only a red, dusty mist, and Athos's weight.

And then, suddenly, Porthos is there, right by his side.

For some reason, Aramis isn't surprised. He should be, for Porthos has miraculously materialized beside him, swinging Athos's limp arm over his shoulders and shouting "I've got you!" towards him, not wasting precious time by stopping, but the sudden evaporation of Athos's weight throws him off balance and the world tilts to a corner, his heart skipping a confused beat.

But there's someone else now on his side. An arm slides around his waist, keeping him straight and taking off some of his weight. Without looking, he knows it's d'Artagnan. The support is much needed and Aramis feels relief, but they are still moving onwards, getting away from danger.

/

Next thing he's aware of is the hush of a slight breeze amongst leaves, the soft crunch of weed and foliage as he's being lowered to the ground. He blinks heavily through the exhaustion that now assaults him with the vigour of the last Spaniard he fought off. He notices, as he gives in, that the air is clear; they're surrounded by high trees and are on a rough, bumpy ground, somewhere deep in a forest, and he doesn't wonder how they've come to be transformed from the thick of the battlefield into this greenery.

Someone pulls down the scarf covering his face –he'd forgotten it was there- and the sudden rush of fresh air is like a gentle slap into awareness.

He pulls in a deep, loud breath, but it catches in his chest. He tries another, and then another without releasing the first one, but the air feels like it's stumbling on rough terrain as it crashes through his windpipe, unable to flow freely into his lungs. He turns confused eyes to d'Artagnan, who's squatting close to his face.

"Easy," he's saying, "Easy, Aramis, slow down."

 _Slow down what?_

Realization dawns gradually as his head continues to clear at an agonizingly slow pace. He is struggling to breathe, noticing with detached interest that he must have overexerted himself, and then it makes more sense that his breaths are tearing into his chest, loud and painful, and that he needs to control himself and slow it down. He nods, concentrating on modulating his breathing, head bent down and staring at the fallen leaves between his sprawled legs. It is when his fingers begin to relax that he notices he's been clawing at the leather of d'Artagnan's arm. He lets go, arm dropping down to rest on his leg.

Tipping his head skywards, he closes his eyes and focuses on regaining full control, feeling his senses slowly returning to him.

"Here."

He gratefully accepts the waterskin d'Artagnan is holding out. Taking a few glorious sips is all Aramis needs to regain his composure.

Handing the waterskin back, he rounds on towards his right.

"Athos?"

/

Porthos has lain their friend against the side of the road. With his back against the gentle slope, Athos looks almost _comfortable,_ of all things. Porthos is removing his shredded shirt. Aramis moves close, pushing Athos's hair back from his face and feels a stab of utter dread at the sight of the closed eyes.

"The water," he says tightly, holding out his hand without even turning. The waterskin is dutifully handed to him, and Aramis gently slides his free hand behind Athos's head.

"Athos," he calls softly. "Athos, wake up my friend. You must wake up. Athos."

Porthos has finished tearing apart the soiled shirt. He swears loudly upon seeing the state of Athos's torso even as d'Artagnan sucks in a breath. Aramis briefly closes his eyes with a sigh before opening them and resuming his efforts to rouse his friend.

"Athos."

Finally he is rewarded with a moan, a fluttering of the eyelids before the thoroughly unfocused gaze slowly wanders to him, and hangs on.

"We're out," Aramis breathes, unable to help it as he sags just a little forward, just a little too close to Athos's face, their foreheads almost touching, but Aramis needs this. Needs the closeness in this moment, needs to anchor himself as much as Athos is tethering himself to him. "We're out."

One shuddering breath, fingers of one hand clenching around the bloodied cloth of Athos's shirt, and Aramis is back in control.

Battle be damned. Orders, generals, _rules -_

It's only Athos, and himself, and Porthos, and d'Artagnan.

They're getting out of here.

Now.


	2. Chapter 2

_Thank you everyone for the lovely response to that first story! I was not expecting it, and it made for a very lovely morning._

 _This second one is a long scene from a story I'm sadly convinced that is never going to be written in full. It was supposed to be_ _about the first few months of the formation of the Inseperables (very original, isn't it?). Compared to the escape from a battleground, though, I must admit, this isn't very thrilling. I hope you enjoy it nevertheless._

* * *

 **II. Athos's entry test**

Tréville breathed a sigh of relief when he found the king alone –except for the coteries of servants and the guards at each of the three doors- with the Cardinal nowhere in sight. It was an unexpected blessing.

"Ah, Tréville," the king greeted him, a smile on his face. Good, Louis was in a good mood. His eyes roamed over the stranger by his captain's side. "And who is this?"

"Your majesty, may I introduce Monsieur Olivier d'Athos, le Comte de la Fére? He has arrived in Paris a few weeks ago and informed me that he is seeking a commission in your majesty's regiment."

"Oh?" Louis's eyebrows rose high, his gaze travelling from Tréville to Athos, who gave a perfect low bow to the king, and back to Tréville again. "And why have you brought him to me? Is it my job to personally recruit musketeers now?" He chuckled at the ludicrous thought. Tréville smiled patiently.

"It is my great fortune that _I_ retain the responsibility, sire." He inclined his head. "Your majesty might remember having asked to meet each new applicant in person. I believe Monsieur Athos would make an excellent addition to the regiment."

"Hmm." Louis lowered himself onto the throne, beckoning Athos to come closer, and rested his chin in his palm. "Le Comte de la Fére..." he mused. His eyes narrowed as he stared at Athos's face, thinking. "The _de la Fére_ 's are one of the oldest families in France, _monsieur le comte_ , am I not right?"

It was a rhetorical question and Athos responded with a slight inclination of his head. "Indeed, your Majesty."

"Athos," the king said slowly, as if testing the name on his tongue. He bit the inside of his cheek, brow furrowing as he gazed intently at the young comte. "I believe I know you."

Athos blinked, his expression entirely blank. "Your majesty has a long memory," he returned with another gracious little bow.

"Well, of course," Louis returned, as if that hardly merited comment. Tréville, momentarily forgotten by both man, felt his jaw slowly dropping at the revelation before he caught himself and closed it again. "de la Fére... But of course!" Louis exclaimed, eyes widening in sudden remembrance, "the Comtesse was one of the ladies in waiting to my mother, was she not, and you and I, monsieur, used to clash swords in the garden!"

Now feeling properly appalled, Tréville kept his eyes Athos. Childhood playmates with the king! And he hadn't thought to mention it! For any other man, it would be the first thing they would mention when seeking a commision! Unexpectedly, he felt a surge of sudden respect for the man. Athos, to Tréville's hawking gaze, seemed reluctant to discuss it even with the king himself.

What kind of an enigma was this young comte?

"And now you wish to purchase a commission in my Musketeers," the king continued, "That is most unusual, monsieur."

He leant forward to rest elbows on his knees, clasped hands at the end of stretched arms, not taking his eyes off of Athos's face for a second. If he were honest with himself, Tréville couldn't remember seeing him this interested in a person in a long time. "Has some misfortune fallen on your estate?"

At that, Tréville glimpsed a contraction in the muscles on Athos's brow; rapid blinking as his gaze dropped to the lacquer floorboards, fingers of one hand subtly contracting at the sides. When he spoke, not raising his eyes from the floor, the words sounded as if they've been wrenched through a dark, narrow pit, scratched and mangled.

"No, sire. I merely wish to take a more active role in serving my country, and cannot think of a more worthy cause than dying while protecting my king."

The sentiment, as formidable as it was in construction, carefully stretched over a ravine filled with wreckage, a misfortune of the kind a man did not easily speak of. The king did not notice it, walking directly over that bridge without glancing downwards, but Tréville did not miss it. Athos's meeting with the king was turning out to be much more illuminating than Tréville's own several stinted conversations with the comte had ever been.

"That is commendable," Louis approved that regally with a nod, pleased. "But surely you would have married. What about family? Have you fathered an heir? What would happen to your estate if you became a Musketeer?"

"My wife has passed, sire," Athos replied – to only one of those questions, Tréville noticed - and spoke with such hollowness, Tréville felt his own heart twist at the bitter revelation. "I am not looking to re-marry."

"Hmm. That is very sad."

Not the most articulate comment the king of France could make on the subject of a dead spouse, but Louis appeared to think the subject too unpleasant to pursue. Perhaps that was just as well because he also desisted with the questioning. Instead, he rose to his feet and stepped down from the throne, swinging his arms a bit, obviously to flex tight muscles there, but managing to look a bit like a bored child nevertheless. He walked and stopped before Athos, clasping his hands behind him.

"I have a proposition, Monsieur," he declared. "If you wish to join my Musketeers, Captain Tréville would have informed you that the regiment only accepts the most accomplished swordsmen France has to offer. What say you if I propose that we clash swords again? See how the intervening years have affected us both?" A glint of excitement shone in his eyes as he issued the subtle challenge. "I am sorely in need of the practice anyway," he added with the corner of his mouth, obviously unhappy about that.

Tréville immediately took a breath to protests, but the king twirled on his heel without waiting for an answer, instantly excited about his own spontaneous design. Tréville looked to Athos.

"You honour me, sire," the young man returned calmly, giving another perfect bow.

"Bring me a rapier," the king ordered his servants immediately. He wasn't happy with the one he was presented with. "Not this one, you dolt! I'm not going on a crusade, it's just for light practice!"

 _Light practice?_ Tréville thought. Another man's eyebrow would have risen but the only thing that moved on the Captain's face was his eyes. He honestly did not know what to expect from this "practice", and that made him nervous.

And Tréville didn't do nervous well.

"Now, Comte, I expect a good challenge. And I shall know if you dare to hold back on me. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sire."

"Very well. Let us go out to the gardens, then. The weather's excellent; there's no need to exert ourselves indoors. Bring us refreshments," he called distractedly to no one in particular as he strolled out of the hall, Athos and Tréville following closely at his heels. There was a distinctly uncomfortable feel of a fist twisting Tréville's insides, and yet, as he cast a surreptitious glance at the comte striding aside him, he found Athos's back ramrod straight, not the slightest hint of apprehension about him, and could not help but be curious about what was about to happen. Would Athos dare to beat the king in a duel of swords? The captain did not know him well at all but one thing he knew was that the man wasn't stupid, neither was he, by the look of it, at any measure shaken or intimidated about the prospect of clashing swords with the king.

All perfectly good signs for a King's Musketeer, Tréville noted. But it would all come down to how he acquitted himself during this "practice". After all, if Louis found any reason to feel slighted by Athos, it wasn't merely the man's chance at a commision that would be at risk. King Louis was not a cruel man, yet Tréville had known many a poor soul lose his head to an unpredictable whim.

"Ah, excellent, my dear!" the king exclaimed as they walked out of the double glass doors and strode towards the large marble fountain, near which Queen Anne was seated under a canopy with her ladies-in-waiting. She looked up with a smile from her needlework upon hearing the king's approach. "What a delight to find you here," Louis continued, walking to the queen and raising her hand to his lips before turning to gesture at Athos and Tréville.

"Captain Tréville has brought me this monsieur who wishes to purchase a commission in my Musketeers. Now, of course, one would have thought that any noblemen with the means to provide for themselves would be welcome at the regiment -since it's no secret we need the money - but no. Only the best of the best for our elite guards! So Tréville brought him to me, and I challenged him to a duel!"

It took a lot of effort for Tréville to not groan.

The young queen frowned, turning her head to throw a slightly alarmed look at the captain.

"Well, when I say 'challenge' I mean I proposed he clash swords with me," the king clarified, waving a hand in the air. "What better way to ascertain if he's fit to protect me, don't you think?" He grinned, a sad tableau of a fully-grown man with the face of an overly pleased child.

The queen's eyes strayed then to Athos, who had respectfully stood in silence beside Tréville until that moment. With the queen's eyes on him, Athos turned slightly to face her, and bowed with just the right amount of flair, saluting her with a "your majesty," framed with inborn grace. The captain couldn't fathom what the queen saw in that brief gaze, but she looked to Tréville once more even as her words were directed at the king.

"Perhaps you would consider leaving this task to Captain Tréville, sire," she suggested, turning to her husband with a sweet smile she placed on her face. "That way, we would both enjoy a display of his most excellent skills with the sword, and your majesty can ascertain the monsieur's skill for himself."

"That is a lovely idea, my dear," Louis smiled, "but let us tuck it away for the next time someone applies to the regiment, because today I am rather itching for exercise. Come, comte!" he called, almost jovial as he pivoted towards the column-like Athos and simultaneously beckoned at a servant to help remove his vest, "Show your king why you're worthy of the honour of protecting him!"

Beside Tréville, Athos gave the king a courteous nod, and his hand shot to the silver chain fastening his cloak. A servant moved in to assist him with shedding the garment but Tréville's keen eyes caught the moment the man briefly started at the movement, as if he hadn't expected to be offered help by a servant. Odd behaviour for a comte, for surely Athos had his own valet and coteries of manservants aiding in such things; but the hesitation lasted the whole of two seconds before Athos dismissed the man with a shake of the head, and proceeded to undress himself. It was a day full of surprises as Tréville suddenly caught himself raising his arms to take the cloak. Catching himself at the last moment, he self-consciously lowered his arms, thoroughly surprised at himself. Thankfully Athos did not notice it, and deposited his cloak, hat, gloves, and deep blue doublet into the arms of the waiting servant. Then, rapier in hand, he followed the king towards the sand-covered ground surrounding the fountain.

There was a slight, gentle breeze on this lovely autumn day, offering just enough lightness to prevent it from being stifling. It being early afternoon, the right wing of the Louvre cast its dark, blocked shade over just one half of the fountain, providing shelter to the two noble duellists from the sun's glaring heat.

Gravel crunched under Athos's boots as he took his position beside the marble pool and stood facing the king. The breeze fluttered his voluminous grey shirt and pushed tendrils of hair back from his forehead, revealing a face as stoic as that of the marble statue that loomed over them from the palace's façade. As Athos waited for the king to take his own position, Tréville observed once more, with keen interest, the admirable lack of any sign of nervousness in the young comte. He marvelled, once again, and more strongly this time, at that indeterminably old _thing_ this young man carried inside him. _Soul_ , Tréville could not bring himself to think of it as, for he did not know the young man nearly as well as he'd have liked – and he _would_ like it, indeed - but perhaps, he found himself thinking, it _was_ the centuries of noble blood that coursed through his veins - a true _noblesse_ that Tréville himself rarely ever witnessed in Louis XIII's court, and even more rarely pondered upon.

And perhaps, there lay the source of his own unexpected curiosity regarding the Comte de la Fére. While he'd have thought he couldn't care less for, or about, nobility of blood any further than recognizing its place in the world he inhabited, Athos was the first man he'd encountered who did not seem so much as _carrying_ his title, as embodying it.

Perhaps even the king had breathed a whiff of the young comte's air, for Tréville watched him throw Athos a glance and then pull himself up to his full height, the excited grin that was more befitting a young lad in his first duel vanishing to be replaced by a mask of royalty that Tréville had most times despaired of ever seeing on the king's face. Throwing his shoulders back, chin up, the king of France slowly raised his rapier, the tip pointing to Athos's chest from across the clearing as he spoke.

"Fight for your commission, monsieur," he entreated him, voice loud and carrying the unmistakable note of command instead of the more usual demand. Tréville felt an unexpected pang of pride. "Beat me, and you shall earn the right to wear the pauldron of my regiment. If you lose," the king smiled slightly, a quick flash of that self-indulgent smirk on his lips, "I will still have had some entertainment. I shall enjoy victory." Shifting his stance into the fighting position, his eyes grew hard.

"I will have won either way," he muttered, and damned if Tréville knew whether it was a reminder Louis intended for himself, or an ominous forewarning for the fate of the nobleman, should he pass this trickiest of entrance tests.

Then, the duel began.


	3. Chapter 3

_Thank you all so much for that delightful response – I am so glad you're enjoying the 'snacks'. I loved how loud the comments page suddenly became after the last one - from the "nom nom" to the "gahhh" to the "noo", all sounds articulate and less so were deeply appreciated. ;)_

 _As per request, here's a small piece to tie-up that loose end.. and perhaps, to lay down a couple more. This takes place sometime after S1 Ep.5, after Porthos is tried and cleared, and before Ep.8 where d'Artagnan earns his commission._

* * *

 **III. The two Gascons**

"Then?"

"Then... they fought."

That seemed to be all Captain Tréville was going to share about how Athos had earned his commission five years ago. He stood up on stiff legs and turned his back to his eager listener, trying to loosen the knots in his shoulder muscles and remember why he had begun to tell this tale in the first place.

It wasn't even _his_ story to share. Especially not now, not when Athos –

"Surely you're not going to leave it there."

"It's late." He threw a glance over his shoulder to the man slumbering on his bed, softening his voice. "It's a miracle we didn't wake him already."

His comment made the Gascon turn on the low stool and glance anxiously at his mentor, almost frightful as if expecting to meet a half-lidded glare, but Athos was still asleep. Tense lines on his brow betrayed the discomfort as he half-reclined on the pillows, having refused to lie down.

"Well, we didn't," d'Artagnan commented, satisfied. "So? What happened next?"

Placing a deliberate scowl on his face, Tréville wondered why he couldn't bring himself to be _genuinely_ cross with the man. Ever since he'd set foot in the regiment d'Artagnan had been doing a remarkable job of rampantly trampling boundaries of rank, somehow managing to speak with everyone from the stableboy to Tréville himself like his equal - and managing that without the slightest hint of arrogance or presumption. Frankly, that itself was a commendable feat: being cross with d'Artagnan for that would be like being cross with a war horse for wanting to gallop across a field.

Still, the captain glared.

"Considering that Athos is the finest swordsman _in the regiment,_ d'Artagnan, the outcome should not escape your sharp wit."

"Well.. It doesn't, sir," d'Artagnan blinked, "I was hoping more to learn about the process, rather than the outcome."

 _Nicely turned_ , Tréville admitted begrudgingly.

"So the king challenged Athos to a duel and Athos won - how did he manage?"

" _Why_?"

Irritation was on the rise; impatience blossoming for no particular reason. "You don't think Athos can beat Louis in a duel of swords?"

Now _that_ was a difficult question, if Tréville had ever posed one.

d'Artagnan opened his mouth to reply, but quickly thought the better of it; he considered, blinked, and closed his mouth again. Even as he looked on, Tréville felt a flicker of contrition for having even asked the question. It wasn't fair to force the lad to choose between his loyalties to the king and to Athos, both of whom, he suspected, were held in almost equal regard.

He sighed, eyes straying back to Athos's ailing form.

It had been a _very_ long day.

"The king may be capricious at times," he relented at last, leaning heavily back against the desk, "But he is also _king._ He wouldn't have gone back on his word when he'd given it in front of myself and the queen. They fought... In the end, Athos won the duel by sneaking the point of his rapier into the basket of the king's own. He disarmed Louis so _gently_... Triumph and humility, d'Artagnan, burrowed in a flick of his wrist. He caught the king's sword as it flew in the air; walked up to him, and went to his knees before a stunned Louis. He lay both swords at the king's feet and did not rise until Louis pulled himself together and commissioned him then and there."

Awe, once again, shone brightly in d'Artagnan's eyes. For a fleeting moment, Tréville seriously worried if he was doing the right thing by providing the lad with even more reasons to worship his mentor - not that he thought that was possible. But it wasn't just awe in d'Artagnan's eyes. Tréville could see the hope, the ambition, the dreams mixed into that glitter like stardust - dreams that defied tempering by possibility. The lad didn't just hope to earn his own commission one day; he dreamed of earning it in the most glorious of ways.

Perhaps, that expanse of d'Artagnan's heart was why he couldn't bring himself to reprimand the lad - to ever try to school him into the boundaries of formality and rank. It wasn't that d'Artagnan was ignorant of them; no, he was raised as a gentleman, conducting himself perfectly well. But he wasn't intimidated by rank _or_ status. That alone, perhaps, showed a courage even more remarkable than barging into the garrison and challenging _Athos_ to a duel.

So why erect invisible walls before this young man at the beginning of his journey, when every other man Tréville knew wished furtively that they could wear them down? d'Artagnan _crashed_ through walls. He'd crashed his way through the garrison and into the regiment; right into the near-sacred brotherhood of Tréville's _Inseperables,_ and unless the captain was badly mistaken, he had also crashed his way into Athos's revered heart.

And perhaps, he thought with sudden insight, that was why Athos was adamant that the boy deserved every chance he could get. Intrinsically, Athos had sensed from the beginning that there was no standing in the way of Charles d'Artagnan. He would crash and force and fly his way through life, and he would soar, because d'Artangnan was _pure_ _dare_.

All things considered, if only at the very depths of their hearts, it was a thing to be admired, cherished and protected; not suppressed or chastised.

"I bet no one else in the regiment received their commision like Athos did," d'Artagnan mused aloud, pulling the captain out of his thoughts.

"No one else in the regiment had personal acquaintance with the king," he felt the need to remark.

Silence cascaded then, and settled between the three men like a thick, woollen carpet. Muffled voices were heard from the courtyard, the distant tumbling of carriage wheels reaching up to them from the square beyond the gate. The clashing of metal had ceased since the sun had gone down. At this hour, all the men would be in the mass hall; under the warm glow of the candles Serge would be serving up ladles of delicious mutton stew. Cadets on kitchen duty would struggle to keep up the constant stream of giving and taking plates - cups would rattle - cutlery clank - the rumble of conversation would fill the room and tonight... tonight, they would talk of Athos.

A soft huff - something like a self-deprecating snort - made Tréville turn from the window and look inquisitively at the young man.

"I should have guessed," said d'Artagnan softly. "I did wonder about it, but still..."

Tréville waited.

"Porthos's trial was held at court. Even though he's a King's Musketeer, he was tried by the magistrate, but Athos wasn't, was he? When he was falsely accused of murdering those men – including my father - he was taken directly before the king."

His brow creased as he frowned deeply, thinking. "I remember Aramis and Porthos saying that judgement was passed very quickly." He looked up. "Was there a reason for it? Because it doesn't make any sense." He threw a glance at Athos as the idea rapidly continued to form, d'Artagnan holding on to it like a rope with one end disappearing into the dark. "If Athos's family is really that old and important, _and_ Athos knew the king personally, after five years as a Musketeer..." he captured Tréville's gaze, "...why was the king was so quick to condemn Athos to death?"

 _Good God,_ the captain inwardly groaned. A curse on that sharp Gascon mind! Was there no end to the questions - or was this revenge for being asked if he thought Athos could beat the king?

Unbidden, Tréville felt his lips curling up. He turned, came to stand beside the desk, and took in his sleeping lieutenant behind the wrought-iron screen, and the curious cadet watching him, vibrant expectation in intelligent dark eyes. He shook his head, slowly exhaling. His weariness after the trials of the day was a living, breathing thing.

"Get some rest, d'Artagnan," he suggested, voice gruff, almost avuncular. " _That_ is a story for a different time."

* * *

 _ **A/N:** I'd never thought this much on d'Artagnan before - I hope I didn't do him injustice. I have no clue why or how Athos came to be indisposed; why he is in the captain's office or where Aramis and Porthos are. Had I mentioned "pointlessness" and "indulgence" in these things? _

_I have a few more snacks being prepped at the counter, but I must finish up on the last chapter of BtWD first. I hope this didn't disappoint._


	4. Chapter 4

_This is a very short (and somewhat abrupt) outtake from my multi-chapter story, which would fit anywhere between Chapters 4 and 5. It is not necessary to have read it for this to make sense: there is an ambush and a Musketeer gets badly burned; Captain Athos sits with him until he passes away. This is a dialogue between Athos and d'Artagnan during that time._

* * *

 **IV. BtWD Outtake: A Difficult Night**

"Do not try to be like me, d'Artagnan," Athos said, clear surprise on his face as he turned to look at him, "Why would you possibly want to be like me?"

"Is that a serious question?"

Athos frowned, narrowed eyes drilling into the Gascon's earnest face. He had thought d'Artagnan's admiration of him was a thing left, as it should be, in the earlier days of their acquaintance; it was a big surprise to him that now, after all these years, he was hearing the same genuine sentiment from his friend.

"You taught me not to let my emotions control my head," d'Artagnan continued, his defiant gaze meeting Athos's searching one with the same fiery skill with which he would meet his mentor's sword when they sparred. "In retrospect, that's the best damn advice anyone has given me after my father."

A sad smile came unbidden to Athos's face, smoothing over the creases as he let his shoulders drop.

"I would have expected you to grow wiser in so many years."

If d'Artagnan was surprised that, it was merely a hint in his voice and not visible on his face. "What do you mean by that?"

"I mean that you know me better than anyone in this world, bar Aramis and Porthos," Athos returned forcefully, facing the Gascon once again with a strong look. "Do not misunderstand me, I stand by what I taught you about controlling your emotions in a fight. I dare say it served you well, since you still carry that head on your shoulders, but d'Artagnan –" the hesitation lasted barely a moment before the words slipped out of his lips "—it is I who wishes to be more like you."

He only glimpsed at the totally bemused expression on d'Artagnan's face before averting his gaze, dropping it back to his hands which dangled from his knees by the wrists.

"I don't understand."

Athos sighed as he left aside his sword, then rubbed his face with both hands to abate the pressing need for sleep. "Do you not know why I don't have nearly as many friends as Porthos or Aramis does? Do you not know that if you weren't the stubborn mule that you are, those two would still be the only ones to call me their friend? Why do you think is that?"

"Because you prefer it that way."

"True; to a very good extent. But to an extent, only."

"I don't understand –"

"You, d'Artagnan, took my advice as you should have done. I told you to control your emotions _in a fight,_ I never told you what to do with them outside the battlefield. Do you know why? Because you are one of the few people on this earth who knows how I deal with them – or fail to." Athos was surprised by the force with which the words came off his tongue, defying his intention to be stopped. "Look at me. What exactly do you think were Cormier's last thoughts of me? What comfort was I able to offer him on his deathbed?"

"What are you talking about – Athos, Cormier died peacefully –"

"Peaceful- he was in _agony_." Athos leaned towards the side, his face close to d'Artagnan's as he hissed the words through his teeth. "He was set ablaze in his sleep, and suffered for two days before he died. There is no peaceful dying, d'Artagnan, there are only swift deaths, if we are in luck.

"Do not," he put softly, once more, eyes boring into d'Artagnan's, "try to be like me."

"You're the one who first told me that I was more like you than I knew." Now d'Artagnan sounded more confused than argumentative.

Athos shook his head, exasperated. "For God's sake, boy, that was years ago."

"But I never forgot it. And in all these years we fought side by side – I saw it to be true and I rejoiced it. But I _am_ not you, and–"

"My point exactly," Athos interrupted, eager to not miss the opportunity to regain control of the conversation. "You are better than me, d'Artagnan – _much_ _better_ \- and I wouldn't have it any other way. When I said I wish to be more like you I meant that I- "

He stopped abruptly, as if pulling the reins of a horse to avoid trampling a child, as if skidding to a halt at the brink of a cliff he didn't dare jump. He licked his lips.

If only d'Artagnan could see the irony.

"What?"

Enough was enough. Athos rose to his feet even as d'Artagnan began to protest. "Athos!"

"Leave it. We'll talk later." He began making his way towards the tent.

"Fine, but we'll talk!" d'Artagnan called after him.

Yes, they would. Athos had never specified when or about what.


	5. Chapter 5

_Final snack of the year: a take on a classic theme. Shout-out to_ _ **Greenlips24**_ _, whose comment on a similarly-themed story made me laugh so much, it inspired this, and to_ _ **MountainCat**_ _, who had managed to read my mind twice while this was in the conception stage. If it makes you think 'have I read this one before?', you probably have - just not in my words. Happy new year, everyone._

 _(And thank you for being a part of my 2017 in this fandom. You've made it fun to reacquaint myself with story-writing.)_

 _This takes place in early Series 1. So far as snacks go, it is spiced with silliness and contains a (very) good deal of cheese. Guilty pleasure, I'm afraid. Kindly excuse me._

* * *

 **V. The Tumble & Rescue**

The day starts out as normal as it ever does for the Musketeers.

Stretches out as mundanely as one would expect...

... and takes a horribly perilous turn in a most unexpected manner.

They're setting up camp on the side of this rarely-used mountain road, on their way back to Paris after escorting a noblewoman to her country estate, and they're taking their time about it. There's about an hour until sunset; the view before them, beyond the narrow, thin copse of trees they've taken shelter under, is nothing short of breathtaking. Dark green hills covered with pine forests roll one after the other, stretching as far as the eye can see before fading into a misty horizon; on the other side of the road is a towering wall of rock, as if the mountain's been cut down by the blunt-edged sword of a giant. There's not much space for movement here, or, God forbid, for a fight. It's a good thing then that the road is deserted and there's no reason to anticipate an attack. They're with nature here, in the wild, safely alone.

None of them quite knows how it happens when it does.

d'Artagnan is digging the fire pit, Aramis is patting down his horse, Porthos fishing out stuff from saddlebags when they hear the sounds of a scuffle. It's the type of noise you don't realize you're hearing unless your eyes chance on the source – a wordless exclamation of surprise makes them turn to look. Athos's horse nighs and rears, spooked for no apparent reason, pulling on the rope tethering him to a tree at the edge of the cliff. Athos moves back, maneuvering to circle around the animal to get to safer ground but the horse is restless; it bumps into Athos before he can clear himself and the Musketeer stumbles – his hand shots out to grab the saddle – the saddle, undone, simply slides off the horse – Athos's arms flail as his body arches backwards, bending over empty air – his eyes widen - and he disappears out of sight.

 _Did that just-_

Did it -

" _ATHOS!"_

d'Artagnan can't believe what he just witnessed.

His friend just took a tumble down into a cliff.

 _My God._

Before he knows what he's doing, he's on his knees and leaning over the edge, shouting Athos's name at the top of his lungs and not even hearing himself. He can't see Athos. He can't see anything. The tips of the pines below are pointed and sharp like rapiers; the leaves weave a thick, green wicker over the bottom of the ravine and hide all from sight. d'Artagnan's eyes frantically scan the area from one side to the other but he can't see a single sign that Athos is even down there and his breath begins to swell and expand in his chest as fear puts a block down at the base of his throat – the absolute stillness down below is spreading a cold sensation through his limbs, like melting snow seeping into his sleeves and for a single, terrifying moment, he's choking.

...then Aramis drops by his side, knees scraping so harshly the leather of his breeches should have ripped, and yanks him back with an iron clasp around his arm.

The bruising hold penetrates through the shock, and d'Artagnan releases a whooshing breath as his body jolts.

"Any sign of him?"

Any other time, the mastery over panic in Aramis's voice would have made a fascinating study.

"Can't see anything," d'Artagnan supplies distractedly with thinned breath, heart pulsing somewhere beneath his eyeballs as he leans over again – "Athos!"

"Here."

The single word is as sharp as their surroundings. d'Artagnan looks up to see Porthos handing Aramis a coil of rope, taking one end himself and moving towards the nearest tree even as Aramis finds the other end and begins to wound it rapidly around his waist. It's almost as if they're practised (is Athos in the habit of taking unannounced dives into cliffs?) – Before d'Artagnan knows what he's doing he's on his feet and holding out a hand.

"Don' take this the wrong way," Porthos says as deft hands knot intermittent loops on the rope, "but you don' have 'Mis's experience in climbin' down fourth-story windows." The words themselves are light. The anxiety they frame is anything but.

"Don't take this the wrong way but I can climb faster," d'Artagnan snaps. There's no way he's just going to sit here and wait.

Again, a jerk of his shoulder makes him desist and turn, only to bring him nose to nose with Aramis, whose normally kind eyes are flashing, caught in a storm; d'Artagnan draws himself up to hit back at whatever rebuke is coming - and is more than a little thrown-off when Aramis's voice, when he speaks, is as soft as a cushion.

"Athos is going to need medical help. I can't yell directions at you without seeing him myself."

It takes a good, long fall into that cushion.

Aramis drops his hand and turns.

"Look after the youngster?" he asks Porthos, positioning himself on the brink, "see to it he doesn't take a dive as well?"

d'Artagnan blinks. The man has the _gall_ to _quip_ — (he's running on adrenaline with mental faculties fully engaged on keeping panic at bay; Aramis's mercurial transitions from dead-serious to jesting are too much to handle – he doesn't catch the darkness lurking in either man's eyes and is too appalled to speak.)

"I worry about 'im, you worry 'bout Athos," Porthos cuts him a deal. The tautness of his voice matches the marksman's own.

Aramis nods.

"See you on the other side."

(There's a mixed overtone of "here goes nothing" and "Geronimo" in that, although, of course, the latter expression would mean nothing to him, but again, Aramis, a "romantic", is a man ahead of his time. He carefully begins to ease himself over the edge of the cliff.)

d'Artagnan - frustrated, frightened and helpless, watches him go. He's not at all accustomed to feeling like this, doesn't know what to do with such a potent combination – lowers himself down and starts shouting for Athos again. Perhaps the older man will hear and answer back - he _will_ answer back, in one way or another, now or later, Athos didn't – he's not –

A hand pulls him back. Balances him until he's sat on his haunches, and when he turns to look, the thick layer of worry in Porthos's eyes calms him down a bit.

"d'Artagnan." Unexpectedly, that is Aramis. The kind timbre of his voice is oddly out of place because the man's head looks like it's floating in mid-air and it's a most bizarre sight. "Finish building that fire. Lay our blankets near it, and collect some stones to heat. Look for sticks to use as splinters; I fear we'll be in need of them as well."

d'Artagnan bobs his head, pushes himself to his feet and hurries to do as he's bid (s _omething to do_ , _something to do - he holds on to the instruction like Aramis is holding on to that rope – Athos will be_ fine _, Athos will be fine._ )

It's too early to -

 _It's too sudden and -_

Athos will be fine.

/

Not three minutes into his climb down the rock-wall, Aramis understands this isn't going to be easy, or fast. (Well, has he forgotten to ask for a miracle? He's asking for one now: _God_ _please let Athos be alive._ ) The surface is not only jagged, razor-sharp outcroppings jutting out all over the place, but also littered with tufts of shrubs, making it difficult to spot the next foothold, brushing against his boots, catching on his belt, jostling his bag – he has to be very careful if he's to make it to the bottom in one piece. Thankfully, Porthos is doing a good job of reminding it to him where he's moderating the rope from above.

Thank God for the leather gloves, is what Aramis thinks; if it weren't for them he'd have no skin left on his palms by the time this is over.

"Any sign of Athos?" Porthos asks anxiously.

Aramis doesn't answer that. He's still too high up from the ground, hasn't yet reached the level of the top of the trees; the question is a mute one and he'd rather concentrate on finding his next footfall; besides _please don't let me find Athos dead, please don't let me_ -

"Aramis?"

"Nothing yet," he returns. Soon, d'Artagnan finishes the tasks he's been given and comes over to join Porthos on the ledge. The two of them begin calling out Athos's name again (if Athos is conscious, he may be able to answer them, give some sign of his location; if he can't, he'd still know that his friends are coming for him - as if there'd ever be any doubt). Perhaps it's a bit futile, even a bit silly, but right now reality isn't exactly on its correct axis and _nothing_ is really out of place when 'place' itself is shifting.

"Athos!" d'Artagnan bellows.

"Athos!" Porthos echoes.

Then they hear it.

A grunt. A faint rumble that just _might_ be coming from a human being. Emboldened by hope, d'Artagnan and Porthos begin to call out even more loudly, inexplicably heedless of the fact that their hollering is unlikely to amplify the response they might receive from below, and without noticing, having heard the same sound, Aramis speeds up.

"Oi!" Porthos's voice snaps, "Aramis, slow down! I swear to God if you fall on your arse and break a bone I'll get on me horse and ride away!"

"No, you won't," the marksman returns with supreme confidence. The ones up above can't see the grin but the cheeky note is right there, in a corner, incorrigibly Aramis. "You're too soft-hearted to leave Athos down here."

"Who said anythin' about leavin' him? I'll come down and help 'im and leave you there alone."

"Are you two even serious? For God's sake Aramis, hurry up – Athos may be _dying_ down there!"

The raw agitation in the lad's voice serves well to shut up the other two. If Aramis is thinking something about being given conflicting directives – _slow down and hurry up!_ – he wisely bites his tongue, and a tense silence reigns over the proceedings in the next few minutes. At the very least, the sheer focus the marksman has to maintain on the precarious descent is helping to keep the terror of Athos's possible fate at bay.

They don't hear the grunt again. But relinquishing hope is not an option they will entertain.

"How's it lookin'? Do you see the bottom yet?" (It must be horrible to have to wait above; Aramis sympathises with the lad.) Very carefully, cranes his neck to look down. He's close, well, relatively, perhaps at the hight of a second-story window now, but from what he can make between the branches, it's no foliage-carpeted forest terrain down there (and Athos crashed down there _– please don't let him be dead._ )

"Aramis?"

"I see the bottom."

Then d'Artagnan must have said something Aramis doesn't catch because "Don' worry," Porthos says, ( _Aramis huffs out a breath of laughter - the amount of worry in Porthos's voice is enough to make_ him _worried_ ), "they'll be good. Aramis'll be down before you know it."

"You mean to say he's got experience in mountain-climbing too?" (Is that a note of sarcasm in the boy's voice? Bet they don't realize that the absolute stillness surrounding them allows Aramis to hear every word they're saying.)

"You'd be surprised," Porthos returns, sounding a bit smug.

"Whatever kind of acrobatics you think me capable of, I am flattered, but perhaps save your opinion until the descent it over," Aramis murmurs, not quite caring if his voice reaches up.

Not two seconds after he's said that, his hand slides on the rope. He doesn't know what happens - there's jostling and flailing and - _flying?_ \- and his heart disappears from his chest and his stomach does a flip-flop –and it stops with a terrible jerk on his leg and the overwhelming sense that something is just - wrong.

"Aramis!"

There's an incredibly loud roaring in his ears.

"Aramis, say something!"

He cracks open eye.

He's looking at... the sky? But he didn't -

Oh.

 _Oh._

He's _dangling_ , back to the wall, upside-down from one ankle like meat hung-up to dry.

He thinks randomly of the Dutch as blood rushes to his head - of paintings he's seen in the Louvre's west-wing gallery, of dead game and dead flowers on crisp white tablecloths and wonders what a dashing picture he would make with some apples and oranges on the side.

" _Aramis!_ Answer me, dammit!"

Aramis takes a long, laborious breath. Easing it out through his nose, he calms, and braces himself. Closes his eyes, says a prayer, and hauls himself up. Latches onto the rope with both hands, slides one foot down the length of it to get himself in an acceptable position again and squeezes his eyes close as the blood in his head gets momentarily confused as to which direction to go. One foot is tangled in a mess of rope, but the rest of him is upright again, he swallows down nausea and waits until some semblance of a sense of balance returns - the world stops spinning – he opens his eyes...

... and grins.

Now that was a _feat_ of acrobatics he just performed and it's just his luck that there's no one around to see it.

"Aramis? Are you alright?" It's d'Artagnan and he sounds a little bit – well, _awed_. (Good, they did witness the feat.)

"I'm good," Aramis declares, slightly out of breath, feeling ridiculously relieved, "I'm good – it's fine."

Then they hear the moan again and Aramis's little scare is immediately forgotten by all.

"Athos? Athos, can you hear me? Athos!"

The other two join in from above with renewed vigour and Aramis resumes his climb down, now a touch frantic about it. He curses aloud, pulls out his dagger and begins hacking through the tangle around his one leg, then the groan comes again, unexpectedly near. Chancing another look below, he catches sight of what he thinks - _wishes, prays_ \- to be an arm, _really close, really close_ \- "Come on, Athos, we need you to answer us right now-"

"Ar'mis?"

"Yes! Yes, it's me - I'm just – above – I'm coming, my friend – how badly are you hurt? He's alive!" Aramis shouts upwards, nearly giddy with joy for a second (he's alive!– thank god, thank god thank god) "Athos? Talk to me, come now!"

"Ar'-mis?"

"Yes, I'm nearly there, hold on – "

It looked close enough but there's a good fifteen feet drop to the ground. Aramis stops before slicing through more rope and endangering himself further, and instead, focuses his attention on Athos.

"Talk to me, Athos, how are you doing down there?"

"It would - be good... if I could move."

Well, he's conscious, he's speaking, if very faintly - all excellent signs - Aramis curses the branches that are blocking Athos out of sight, but from the position of the arm he can see, he thinks Athos is probably lying on his side.

"What hurts?" he asks, "Athos, tell me what hurts."

There's a soft sigh and a long pause. "My side. I think...something... something in it." He sounds confused.

Aramis frowns, licks dry lips – perhaps Athos has landed on some jutting, pointed rocks that have punctured his side – worries about what bleeding he may find – then asks again, if only to keep Athos talking, "What else?" Works quickly to cut himself free again, now decidedly heedless of the drop he's facing because Athos's reluctance to answer is gaining on Aramis's dogged insistence –

"Ribs."

It's a mere whisper.

Aramis curses again.

It'd be a bloody miracle if the ribs were intact. (Obviously miracles don't come in packs, neither do they come in all-in-one packs when they come – the fact that Athos is not _dead_ is a miracle itself, but for a moment Aramis can't help but think, exasperated, if it's a miracle anyway, couldn't he have survived _fully intact?!_ )

 _Right._ Perhaps he could have grown wings and flown away, too, while Aramis is at it.

"I'm coming," he says again. Takes a breath and cuts the last bit of rope and plunges down flat on his bottom like a stupid self-fulfilling prophecy – the crash jars his bones but did he land on something -

"Athos?"

He didn't just -

" _Argh_ – ar'ms!" comes the confirmation, several seconds delayed because the impact forced the breath out of Athos's abused lungs -

"Good God - sorry – I'm sorry!"

" _Je-sus_ -"

"Can you breathe? How is your breathing?"

"I can.. breathe _...painful_ ," Athos grinds out through clenched teeth, and throws such a terrifying glare at the marksman, Aramis knows he's only safe for the time being because Athos cannot move _._

There will _so_ be a reckoning...

He gets to his knees and reaches out, his hands hovering over Athos's body, hesitant to touch - he wants to _embrace_ the man but is wary of touching him, frightened of inflicting more hurt. Although, he knows, that is inevitable.

"Athos, I need to turn you on your back," he says. He manages to sound both soft and calm, and is grateful for it. "It's going to hurt."

"Thank you," Athos wheezes, "for warning - this time."

"I learn quick," the marksman quips even as he leans forward ( _dear god, dear god, did he really fall_ on top of _Athos?)_. Slides one hand between the hipbone and the ground; places the other hand on Athos's shoulder, and as gently as he can, straightens Athos to lie on his back. A whimper rumbles from deep within at the unavoidable jostling; Athos's eyes fall shut and Aramis can't remember sliding a hand between his friend's fingers but it's there and Athos is _crushing_ it right now.

"Easy," Aramis mutters, "easy now.. I'm sorry."

The hitching breaths ease after a while. The blue eyes open again and stare blankly at the sky. Aramis brings a vial, and then the waterskin to Athos's lips.

"I've got you, my friend," he murmurs, shifting to carefully pull his friend up to his own chest to help with the laboured breathing. "I've got you now. Don't worry. You'll be fine."

It's become a mantra, a prayer, and a promise, when reality sings a different tale. A hundred different things may be wrong with Athos right now. The broken rib - _the one Aramis broke, the one he fell on-_ may have punctured a lung. There may be internal damage - that is the most horrifying thought because even qualified physicians can do little if there's damage to the organs. Athos tenses in his arms and Aramis's hold instinctively tightens. He begins to undo the doublet buttons to look at the wound in Athos's side. At least there's no blood puddle where his friend initially lay.

When Aramis pulls the shirt up, the wound is ugly, the already forming bruising spectacularly large, but there's not much bleeding and the cuts, while more than a few, seem rather shallow. Athos gasps and moans as Aramis gently probes, eyes flying open but even his whimpers are weak and Aramis knows he's sliding out of consciousness. He lays a hand on Athos's arm and rubs soothingly, then looks up, locates the two fuzzy faces up on the ledge and gives a sign. Less than ten minutes later, Porthos has sent down the makeshift harness he's fashioned from a second coil of rope, Aramis has wrapped his sash around Athos's stuttering chest to stabilize those ribs as much as he could, and looped the harness around Athos's limbs with the minimum of fuss.

"Ready?" he asks tenderly. Lays one hand on Athos's cheek; Athos's eyes travel up and lingers on Aramis. There's a calm in them that somehow still remains there, and it makes Aramis want to laugh and weep at the same time because _who's drawing strength from whom right now?_ The moment lasts three seconds; then the blue eyes close in resignation and Athos gives his nod of consent.

Tipping his head back, "We're ready!" Aramis shouts.

The slack rope tenses.

Strains...

And it's precious cargo moves.

The cry that rips from Athos's mouth is nothing short of whiplash.

So foreign is the sound that for a single, ghosting moment Aramis feels himself _weaver,_ his own composure _crack! -_ he grabs his crucifix but the next moment he drops it and takes Athos's hand instead.

"Easy," he murmurs, "Easy, I'm here, I'm right here. Breathe through it now."

He continues the litany until Athos finally begins to relax, and slowly uncoil from the throes of agony.

"There..." Aramis says gently, swiping a thumb through Athos's brow, "there.. Are you back with me?"

"Yes," Athos breathes, swallowing thickly, tears running down his face.

"Good. Good, we'll manage this, alright? We'll take our time and we'll do this together." (The fact is that they don't have much time. The sun is already too near the horizon and they have to get Athos up before darkness falls. There's no plan for if that comes to pass.)

"Ready to try again?"

"Get it... over with," Athos whispers. His eyes latch on to Aramis's. "Don't stop." He's nearly pleading.

Aramis runs a hand through his brother's hair.

"Okay," he promises soothingly, "Alright," he'll get Athos through this. It's his damn fault that rib has broken. He yanks the rope to signal Pothos and squeezes Athos's hand.

The harness moves again...

/

It is the single longest twenty minutes of their lives.

Athos's pained cries will echo in their memories for a long time. By the time d'Artagnan reaches forward and lifts Athos over safe ground and Porthos manoeuvres to help, the wounded man has long stopped responding to them. Athos is awash, lost in a sea of pain; every sense is blunted and out of tune, warped and stifled by torment; he doesn't hear the comforting, encouraging nonsense his brothers are speaking to him. The others lay him down, as gently as they can, and take in the heavily-lidded eyes, the dulled look behind the thick layer of moisture, tears of agony having long woven paths through the temples. His skin is near-grey in the twilight; he's unresponsive yet somehow still conscious (still _alive_ ).

"We've got ya," Porthos mutters, not quite aware of what he's doing as he softly smooths Athos's hair, "we've got ya, it's alrigh' now. You jus' breathe, alrigh'?" d'Artagnan pulls Aramis up, whose climb upwards is much faster than the descent, and breathing harshly, looking fantastically bedraggled, the marksman drags himself to Athos's side, d'Artagnan, shaky, pale, and quiet, follows closely.

They made it. _They made it._

The rest is not important because Athos will be fine now, he _really_ will be fine.

They move their friend near the fire and they care for him; Athos loses consciousness soon after Porthos removes his boots and d'Artagnan begins cleaning the scapes on his face. Athos is broken, but on the whole of it, nothing can explain how he has survived that fall - nothing but divine prudence, Aramis knows, as he meticulously wraps a swollen shoulder with linens from a sacrificed shirt. They'll look after Athos here for tonight, and tomorrow d'Artagnan will ride on to the nearest village for a cart; it'll be an excruciating journey to the nearest inn but at least, thankfully, thankfully, Athos will be _alive_.

/

He comes around to the dim light of a candle-lit room.

He feels like Porthos – no, three Porthos'es - are sitting on his chest. d'Artagnan is pinning down his arms, and Aramis is...

.. sat at his bedside.

He's in a bed, then. The room doesn't look familiar; there's a patch of pitch black outside the window, it goes without saying its nighttime. Athos shifts a little and bites down a cry, eyes watering as pain explodes like fireworks all over him – _just what – what has happened to him?_

"You're awake."

He is. Wishing he weren't.

"No, don't try to sit up," Aramis prevents him quickly, eyes dark with concern. "You have broken ribs; God knows how many cracked. Sudden movements can puncture a lung." He pauses for a fraction of a second before adding, "I'm pretty certain I'm not equipped to handle that."

The fact that a wisecracking joke doesn't follow speaks to the depth of the marksman's dismay. In the soft, golden light, Aramis's face is etched with worry lines that appear several days old; Athos, wisely, and wordlessly, obeys the instruction. Water is brought to lips and he sips, eyes sliding close again.

It slowly comes back to him. The tumble. He took a tumble into a cliff. ( _How is it that he's still alive?)_ But he's too tired to ask, too tired to listen as aches and pains start awakening one by one. He's wary of even beginning to wonder how much damage he's amassed in the fall; he just wants to drift off again.

Silence stretches..

.. stretches...

... stretches some more...

"I am sorry, my friend."

The apology, when it comes, is quiet – devastated - and as is ever with Aramis, well-contained. "I should have listened to Porthos. Should have moved slower –"

But Athos's good hand twitches. Crawls over the blanket to find Aramis's fisted one and drapes itself over it. When Aramis looks up, it is not exactly a smile he glimpses on Athos's tense features, but forgiveness, clear and unmistakable, is pooled and shimmering in his eyes.

Accepting the gift that is being given, Aramis reaches out with his free hand and pats softly over his friend's knuckles. When he raises his eyes to Athos's face again, the wisecrack now at the tip of his tongue, Athos is asleep.

Somewhere nearby, church bells strike midnight.


	6. Chapter 6

_I did a re-watch of the Series 2 finale yesterday, and in the evening, this came along. A tag, or 'missing scene' as some would call it: Constance has a favour to ask of Athos. Should take place sometime between Aramis's goodbye and the wedding._

* * *

 **VI. Constance's Request**

"You're a difficult man to find."

Bleary eyes lifted to her face, blinking once, twice, otherwise, not a single muscle moving on his face.

"It appears not. You're the second woman to tell me that in as many weeks." He took a sip from his cup. "I must try harder."

A look of affront crossed from Constance's face, but it was gone so quickly that one might have imagined it in the dim light of the room. Her lips curled down, brows knitted together and her eyes darkened, as if she regretted even seeking him out in the first place. Ashamed, Athos lowered his eyes to the table.

"Well, I'm glad I found you," Constance soldiered on, squaring her shoulders as she slid in on the bench, "I have something to ask."

"Ask away, then."

" _Athos._ " Exasperated, she reached out to pull the wine cup away from Athos's unresisting fingers and waited until inquisitive eyes rose to her face, one eyebrow arched in silent remonstration. Constance released a sigh. Perhaps she should try this another time.

Her hesitance must have shown on her face because Athos pushed himself back from the table and straightened himself, running a hand over his haggard features and pinched the bridge of his nose, visibly rallying himself. When he looked at her once more, Constance was relieved to find his expression carefully schooled, blue eyes clear as if all it took for him to dispel the effects of alcohol was his willpower. Which, considering him, was probably the case.

"My apologies, Madame," he muttered, speaking quietly and towards the bottle that stood closer to Constance's side of the table before raising his eyes to her, "How can I be of service?"

Constance found herself grinning at that, leaning over the table with eyes shining like an excited child. "You could walk me down the aisle!"

Athos blinked. Constance watched as the entire expression on his face transformed, the news enwrapped in her request chasing away the lingering shadows, diffusing the ever-present melancholy from his brow. The corner of his mouth wriggled, curled, ever so slowly, he might either be struggling with it, or savouring it.

"I must warn you, Madame," he said, with a flood of impossible warmth in his eyes, "if the man waiting at the altar is another than a certain friend of mine, I fear your day would be at risk of going in a very different direction."

"Well then," Constance said, sitting up and attempting to school her expression into solemnity, feeling two spots of heat high her on cheeks, "then I have nothing to worry about."

Athos leaned forward to grasp both of her hands and smiled with such unbridled affection and joy, Constance felt something flutter pleasantly in her belly.

"I am delighted," he announced. "For both of you."

Constance really liked this look in Athos's eyes.

"Thank you," she returned with a smile of her own, "It appals me to think that it took nearly being executed to make me come to my senses!"

To her utter surprise and embarrassment, a sob on a hiccupping laugh bubbled from her chest at the last word, as if only at that moment it was dawning on her that she _was_ nearly beheaded, the utter terror she had struggled to contain as she'd waited for the blade to fall, that impossible tightness in her stomach which threatened to stop her breathing even before the executioner could severe her neck and her own blood would spill and join the long-faded stains on the block, mixing with the-

"Hush. It's over now."

Just when had Athos moved, stood and walked to her, and just when had she buried her face in his chest – her, seated, him, standing, cradling her head to himself as she trembled in this dark, quiet corner of a dingy tavern while the sun outside still had hours to set - how very _absurd!_ \- and the thought sent another ripple through her, laughter or sob damned if she could discern.

"I'm sorry," she muttered, making no move to pull away from the comforting smell of Athos's leathers, "Sorry, I'm just -"

"Hush," was the reply she received again, something so damn _fatherly_ in the way it was intoned, in the gentle hand that cupped the back of her head, the arm around her shoulders tightening a bit, "You have endured unspeakable things. You would not be human if you did not react."

"Oh, God," spilled from her lips, as the acknowledgement prompted a renewed surge of memories, the trembling turning into shivers as she recalled those wooden steps, the thud of them under her heels at every single step she'd taken closer to death, and how grey the sky had seemed, and how, looking around the courtyard and seeing how many _men_ surrounded her, she had desperately sought to see one friendly face, for one last time, but if she couldn't, well, she'd had d'Artagnan's memory to take along with her, his cries in her ears declaring his love and she loved him, how she loved that man with all of this heart that was soon to be stopped, how she wished it would _burst_ before that-

"It's all over now," came the rich, rumbling comfort from above, "All in the past."

Yes. Yes, it was all in the past and she was making a fool of herself; she hadn't come to Athos to speak about the past, but of the future. With effort, she made her fingers unclench from where they had somehow curled around Athos's doublet, leaving wrinkled imprints on the material and pulled away from him, Athos unresisting as he let her go. She kept her eyes on the scorched surface of the table as she tried to compose herself, taking the pristine handkerchief Athos offered with a look of thanks. This wasn't exactly how she had planned this to go.

Then again… she hadn't planned anything. There hadn't been time to think.

"I didn't come to you seeking a shoulder to cry on, just so we're clear," she warned with a sniff as Athos retook his seat. He dipped his head, acquiescing the point.

"I assure you, Madame," he said, "Mine is hardly a shoulder anyone has sought for that purpose."

She chuckled, chastising herself for unravelling like this. Then again, she supposed, she could have lost it in worse company.

"So," she asked, back on track, "Will you do it? Walk me down the aisle?"

Athos did not immediately reply. He regarded her with those opaque eyes and Constance found herself wondering what he was thinking. She didn't expect him to refuse, but frankly, she didn't look forward to making an explanation either. She could, of course, ask any one of her own brothers to do the honour, but the fact of the matter was, as soon as the implications of d'Artagnan's proposal had sunk in, Athos had been the first person she had thought of. She didn't want to waste time; she'd went directly to the garrison in search of him.

It took all of two seconds for her to think all of this.

"Constance," Athos returned, "It would be not only my honour, but my utmost pleasure and joy."

She grinned from ear to ear.

She was getting _married!_ Getting married _again_ , but this time to a man she loved; getting married tomorrow.. whilst she'd been on the block yesterday...

"You linger," Athos noted, filling a cup he'd procured out of nowhere and pushing it towards her, "It is not like you."

Constance looked at him. Her gaze got caught on the blue of his eye and the strangest thought occurred to her, out of that blue - hadn't Athos had the same experience with her? Hadn't he, as d'Artagnan and Porthos and Aramis had later told her, been snatched from being shot to death by a firing squad in the nick of time, the king's pardon arriving with not a second to spare to still the dozen eager fingers on musket triggers?

Was he not the only person she knew who could truly understand what it had been like; to be sentenced to death for crimes they did not commit, to await death for that longest of nights and to long for and dread the dawn at the same time, and the fear and the courage it took to just keep _breathing_ through it—

Athos reached for her hand again, clasped it firmly with his to keep her in the present.

"Dwell not on death. You have much to live for, my friend - you and d'Artagnan. Think only on that."

Constance nodded. Giving in to Athos was so easy.

But something about him today...

"Doesn't everybody _?_ " she asked him tentatively, a slight fidget of her shoulders betraying her concern of overstepping a boundary.

It was a misstep, indeed.

Athos retracted his hand, and the cloud that had been hovering over him ever since Constance had found him fully descended over. His expression closed, darkening as if a curtain had been drawn. She shouldn't have done this, dared to turn the tables. She'd found him drinking in a tavern at three o'clock in the afternoon; he had to have reason to be here - but Constance was _happy_ , too happy and happiness was hard to contain, it was infectious and she'd wanted to say something to dispel that sadness in his eye and now she regretted it, immediately regretted it.

She could read nothing from his expression as Athos stared into a spot just over her shoulder. Something, there was just something beneath the surface of him today, just under his skin, puzzling, bothering, torturing him.

Then his eyes steered back to her and a wounded smile graced his lips.

"Not quite, Madame," he returned, with a sort of infinite kindness, as if to spare her from some phantom hurt that only he knew the depths of.

It left Constance feeling all of eight years old.

Protected and pacified. Just a touch teased, and curious to learn more - but all the wiser to try. Athos pushed himself up.

"May I?" he asked.

And held out his arm to her.

With the brightest of grins suffusing her face, Constance rose and hooked her arm with his. Between yesterday and tomorrow, Athos anchored her. Pleased with life more than she had ever been, now when everything was set back on track, the world – their world – righted again by the King's Musketeers, she was going to marry one of them and Athos was going to give her away.

"Thank you," she whispered up to him. He patted her hand, and they walked out of the tavern together.


	7. Chapter 7

_Tag to S1Ep.1 – set right after Athos is saved from execution._

 _Happy to feel the words flow again._

* * *

 **VII. The Nick of Time**

It is three steps after reaching the top of the stairs and four steps after the chains on his wrists are taken off that Athos visibly falters.

"Hey." Porthos is so close to him Athos feels his breath on his neck; the low rumble is meant for his ears alone. "You alrigh'?"

Athos has no breath to answer, no breath to lie. He forces a nod instead, unable to raise his head to look at his friend and reassure him. His heart is yet to settle, his breath still coming in quick, short gasps. If anything, it's getting worse: his legs are rapidly turning to water; with a shuddering sigh he leans his back against the wall and bends over, hands on his knees, a sharp tremor rushing to take hold of his limbs.

"Athos?"

Aramis's voice is all controlled concern. He crouches beside him, looking up, trying to glimpse his face, but Athos can't spare attention to him as bile rushes up his throat in unexpected speed and his mouth turns sour; he shoves Aramis out of the way, hurls himself aside and vomits.

There are murmurs he can't understand.

A cackle of laughter that stops abruptly in a clank of metal, and there's an image of Porthos's knuckles somewhere at the back of his mind, a scowl on his friend's face over a cowering guard.

When he can straighten himself again, swiping a shaking hand across his mouth, he finds that Porthos has ushered the boy away – D'Artagnan, was it?- and it's only Aramis remaining with him. That is, not counting the guards at the Chatelet's main gate who are openly watching the convicted Musketeer who's just been saved in the nick of time; the disgruntled would-be executioners putting away their unfired muskets with a crude, offensive clatter behind them, down in that _pit_ , or the shouts and jeers of disappointed inmates pushing their faces and hands against the bars of the sparsely-scattered windows, hurling insults at the Musketeers and the Red Guard alike. It should have been a deafening uproar, but oddly, it is not. It washes over Athos like a wave instead – an ugly, grainy, eroding wave, but temporary and ineffectual all the same.

"Better?" Aramis asks.

A sudden spike of gratitude lances a boil in Athos's heart. It spills nothing but warmth into his chest as he gives Aramis a nod. But he makes no move to push away from the wall, as it's the only thing that's keeping him up on his feet.

"Come," Aramis prompts gently, his expression hard in contrast, like Athos's own despite the softness of his voice, because they are Musketeers inside the Chatelet and there are appearances to keep. But it doesn't change the fact that Aramis is his friend and that Aramis will always _act_ when he sees Athos in need; now he circles a hand around Athos's elbow, discreet but firm, after Athos has rinsed his mouth with water from Aramis's flask, and says, with graceful levity of heart, "The universe owes you a solid meal and a good night's sleep. Let us see to that."

That makes Athos huff out a chuckle as he extracts his arm from Aramis's grip, though not without shooting him a grateful, apologetic glance. He must walk out of this place on his own, his back straight, his head held high; his honour, still intact thanks to these men. The latter, truthfully, has never really been his concern. Even if he were dead, he knew that Porthos and Aramis would have cleared his name. That his soul is condemned beyond redemption is an entirely different matter; Olivier de la Fére is his own to take to his damned grave, but Athos of the King's Musketeers will not stand for his name to be dragged through the mud. He's glad to be alive, if only to see that the stain is washed away.

"I am sorry we couldn't get to you earlier," Aramis offers quietly, genuinely regretful as they walk side by side towards the main gate. Athos catches a vague reflection of his bedraggled state in Aramis's appraising gaze, all the signs of his difficult, sleepless night, and responds by raising an eyebrow while taking his weapons back from an unfriendly guard.

"Not to worry," he says, "Your timing in general could use some work. My expectation was set accordingly."

"Now, isn't it lovely that you know us so well."

"I do," Athos reiterates. God knows he does. His faith in their ability to save him in time has faltered only between the five steps down into the pit and the wall that they chained him to - and no one can fault him for that. He turns and glances at his friends, these two men that would go to the end of the world for him, and adds, with grave sincerity, "And I am grateful for it."

Porthos's grin broadens. Aramis's eyes are practically shimmering with warmth. As for the boy... Athos is too tired to pass judgement just yet. But both Aramis and Porthos seem taken with him, a sure sign that he's acquitted himself impressively well, and for now, that's enough for Athos. He puts his hat on, breathes in deeply as a semblance of balance finally returns, and looks to his friends.

"Come. I assume the Captain is expecting a report. And then," he glances at Aramis, shoulders drooping a bit, "I wouldn't say no to that meal you mentioned I might be owed."

"Now that is a request I can easily arrange," Aramis declares as he sneaks his arm around Athos's shoulders.

"The wine's on me," Porthos grunts as his hand settles on the back of Athos's neck, and Athos thinks with a smile, no, he was wrong - _now_ his balance is restored.

The three men stride out of the gate in a display of that camaraderie they are known for - _the Inseperables_. The fact that a fourth, an observant young lad, walks alongside them, apart yet included, no hesitancy in his step and a curious glint in his eye, is merely the first step of something remarkable.


	8. Chapter 8

_When a scrap unexpectedly turns into a snack_ _.._

 _An expansion of another scene in the first episode of the series. This also ties in with Snack number 3, The Two Gascons, like a backstory. Needless to say, any recognizable lines are taken directly from the episode._

* * *

 **VIII. Reasonable Doubt**

"I am sorry about your friends - Captain Cornet and the others," d'Artagnan added as Aramis's eyebrows rose. The marksman's face fell as he nodded.

"They were good men. They deserved better than what they got."

d'Artagnan was curious whether Aramis was particularly close to any of those men. When they had come upon their morbid discovery among the snow-covered forest, he'd felt disgusted at the sight of the murdered Musketeers, stripped of their clothes and left to be scavenged by ravens. He'd walked a few steps away, turning his back to the scene to give his two companions a moment of privacy among their fallen comrades. He'd glimpsed how heavily Porthos's hand had landed on the crouched Aramis's shoulder, and a shudder pass through Aramis's hunched frame. His back turned, in the frozen silence of the woods, he'd heard Porthos grumble, "Come up, 'Mis. No use lingerin' 'ere."

A moment later, the snow had crunched and Aramis had risen to his feet. Kicking a bit of snow with the tip of his boot, d'Artagnan had turned on his heel, just catching sight of the Musketeer pressing two fingers on his eyes. In only a few moments he had lowered his hand; looked up through the sky, blinked rapidly and released a breath, forming a cloud in the frigid air; he'd looked right and left, brow creased, as if searching for something among the trees. D'Artagnan's hand had strayed to his sword, feeling on edge as always.

But Porthos just placed a hand on Aramis's bicep, dark eyes concerned, and Aramis's slightly confused eyes turned to meet his; the bigger man didn't say a word, but d'Artagnan observed something unspoken pass between them. Whatever it was, Aramis took a deep breath, broke eye contact and visibly shook himself; Porthos released his arm, then, Aramis's gaze strayed aimlessly among the trees until they landed on d'Artagnan.

"d'Artagnan," he beckoned to him, "Come and take a look. Have you seen any of these men before?"

Frowning, the Gascon approached and took in the dead men's faces. None were familiar. He relayed as much.

The two Musketeers sighed. Aramis took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair, his expression greatly troubled; Porthos, scowling, pursed his lips and set to the grim task of arranging the bodies side by side. d'Artagnan watched, eyes narrowing, as Aramis once again crouched, and blessed the dead men, one by one.

If Aramis was sorrowful, anger was rolling off of Porthos in waves.

"They shot them like animals an' stripped 'em of their uniforms!"*

"D'Artagnan. The men who did this, killed your father as well. If you want justice, help us find them and clear Athos's name."*

D'Artagnan huffed, acknowledging the man but keeping his silence. He didn't know what to think. Aramis was insistent, eyes flashing at d'Artagnan's lack of response.

"Do you still believe that Athos was the one who murdered your father? Do you not see that something else is at play here - our comrades were murdered, their uniforms stolen - someone is trying to blacken the Musketeers' name."

D'Artagnan would die before admitting it, but the steady glare Porthos fixed on him from behind Aramis was quite intimidating. He averted his eyes.

"I don't know," he still replied stubbornly. He _had_ heard that the King's Musketeers were men of honour, the most elite of the King's regiments, high above common soldiery. Yet what did he know of these men? What did he know of this Athos, or Porthos or Aramis for that matter? They were genuine in their distress about the murdered men, d'Artagnan did not doubt that. And he was certain that if they had any hidden agendas - if they were indeed murderers and highway robbers! - well, they had had plenty of opportunities to dispose of him since they had left Paris! No. These men were genuine.

And still. _And still._

Until he had definitive proof that this Athos was _not_ his father's murderer, d'Artagnan wouldn't know what to believe. Even if, deep in his heart, he had already believed Athos's own word when the man had nearly pinned him to a post in the garrison courtyard.

And yet, right now, it was still his father's - last - word versus that of the three Musketeers he'd met this morning. Only one thing was certain. D'Artagnan was going to see this business through – he simply _had_ to know.

"That trial was a mockery of justice," Aramis spat, repeating Captain Tréville's words from the day before as he stalked towards his horse, "Athos was given no chance at defending himself. He wasn't even properly questioned, or allowed to call his own witnesses-"

"Yeah - if they 'ad bothered, they'd find a dozen Musketeers ready to testify Athos was at the garrison that day," Porthos agreed. "'e wasn' anywhere near that inn two days ago." He looked at d'Artagnan. "You said you an' your father were attacked a couple hours before sunset, right?"

"Yes?"

"Athos 'ad returned from a mission just before noon that day. We 'ad a meal together, then he went to 'is rooms to get some rest, passin' by a courtyard full of Musketeers as 'e did. 'e was in Paris at the time your father was killed."

d'Artagnan blinked, once, twice, then frowned deeply as his hands perched on his hips. "Then why didn't you speak up? Why didn't the Captain speak up to give his own testimony?"

"The captain wasn't at the garrison-" Aramis began, but Porthos cut him off.

"Are you not listenin'? No witnesses were call'd forth on his behalf! Athos's conviction was a foregone conclusion."

"But _why?_ " d'Artagnan insisted, his own irritation rising, "You're convinced there's a conspiracy against your friend - help me understand this: if you were in the room and could testify to save Athos, then _why didn't you_?"

Perplexed, Porthos and Aramis exchanged another long glance. d'Artagnan tapped his foot impatiently as he waited for another silent conversation to reach its conclusion.

"You do not speak of your volition while at their Majesties' presence, d'Artagnan," Aramis explained at last, his tone careful, "Only if you are called to."

Slightly discomforted, "I know that," d'Artagnan objected - even though he _hadn't_ \- "but surely etiquette shouldn't be a concern when there's a life at stake."

But Aramis's gaze was firm as he reiterated, slowly, "That is not how things work at court."

"Besides," Porthos grumbled, "the Cardinal kept speakin'. He wasn' givin' anyone a chance; even the Cap'n could only get a couple words in. I never saw judgement passed so quickly -" Aramis's sharp glance turned to him this time, cutting him off from speaking ill of the king's 'infallible' judgement.

But they were only confusing d'Artagnan further.

 _Court etiquette_ prevented these men from testifying for their friend. Not only did d'Artagnan have difficulty understanding that, but it also made him feel very much out of his depth. He had only come to Paris twice in his life. While his father had raised him as a gentleman, the proper ways to conduct oneself at the king's court had escaped his tutors' attention.

But much more disconcerting was the vision of justice these two men were drawing for him.

Because if Athos was indeed innocent - and d'Artagnan was believing more and more strongly that he was - then the man's treatment by the king and the Cardinal was making him quite uneasy about the way royal justice seemed to be dispensed.

His thoughts were diverted when Porthos picked up something from the ground and turned to them with a scowl.

"Was Cornet carrying Spanish gold?"*


	9. Chapter 9

_This is another tag to the Series 2 finale._ _ **The following may be spoilery even if you've seen the episode**. In the final scenes of the episode, both Athos and Porthos are wearing blue sashes under their belts. I saw a very old tweet by Jessica Pope mentioning that the one Athos wore was actually Aramis's sash, and this snack is born out of that._

 _Once again, any recognizable lines are directly from the show._

* * *

 **IX. A Private Goodbye**

The return to the garrison is unusually quiet.

D'Artagnan takes his leave early on, before the trio has even left the palace grounds. He has permission to see Constance that evening and after everything they've been through, there's no place else the Gascon would rather be. That leaves Athos and Porthos by themselves up on their mounts, a strange awkwardness between them in the wake of Aramis's sudden goodbye. This, being the two of them, at the moment, feels uncomfortably odd.

"Did we do this righ'?" Porthos asks abruptly as they leave the gates behind and start towards the Seine. Athos cast him a glance, seeing openly that with the slightest encouragement, Porthos is ready to turn around and dash off in pursuit of their now-wandering marksman.

"Could we have held him back?" Athos asks back carefully, watching his friend. It earns him a dark, narrow-eyed glare.

"At least we could 'ave _tried._ "

Porthos is clearly angry, almost as if Athos has been the one responsible that Aramis drifted away. But Athos is serene in the knowledge that Porthos is not actually blaming him. They both know damn well that he needed no permission from Athos if he truly wanted to stop Aramis.

So the bigger man huffs in annoyance, like the horse under him as he jerks the reins a bit too harshly, and the two men ride side by side in a trudging, steady gait through the _Quai de l'Ecolle_. When they reach _Pont Neuf_ , Porthos breaks the silence, growling, "I need a drink. You comin'?"

"No," Athos sighs, "Not tonight. Unless you require company...?"

"I need nothin' but a bottle of good wine," Porthos grumbles, "Or several." He's in a truly sour mood, and Athos watches him almost fondly as he steers his horse and moves off, joining the evening crowd.

Taking an opposite turn for the bridge, Athos makes his way to the garrison alone.

It is a bright, clear night that is descending on Paris. Street lanterns are being lit, vendors closing up shops, taverns and alehouses beginning to light up; reputable women of the neighbourhood make haste to be away, maids quicken their steps, pulling children along. The alleyways have long been swallowed by shadows, but the stars are showing up one by one, and Musketeers are lighting the torches around the courtyard as Athos reaches the garrison's vaulted gate. He greets the guards with a curt nod, and inquires after Tréville. The captain has yet to return from the Louvre. Nodding his thanks, Athos nudges his horse forward, dismounts before the stables and throws the reins to Jacques, but he stops when the lad lingers instead of taking the animal away.

"Monsieur Athos.." he begins hesitantly, "Has Aramis really left the regiment?"

"How do you know that?" Athos asks sharply, confused as to how the news could have reached the garrison so fast.

"He was in the garrison earlier," Jacques replies quickly, taking half a step back as if wary of Athos striking him, "I - I saw him packing up his things. Then Bernard and Pinchon were talking in the stables - something about Aramis asking them to find an ass for a journey. I saw him go up to the captain's office, but when I came back from the kitchens I went to his room and.. he was gone."

Wordlessly, Athos regards the boy.

Aramis always took time to engage with the pathetically timid Jacques. Everyone knows that Aramis is Jacques's favourite person in the regiment. Unfortunately, Athos is not one for tender words when it comes to stating truths.

"It is true he has left," he confirms after a long pause, tone perfectly flat.

"Oh," says Jacques, just before his bottom lip trembles. He ducks his head and spins around, and hurriedly pulls the horse along without another word. Athos trails him with his eyes until he disappears into the stables, making a mental note of asking d'Artagnan to keep an eye on the boy.

With Jacques gone, Athos finds himself alone in the middle of the yard. It's only then that he notices, not with a little amount of surprise, that he has no real reason to be at the garrison this night. He's had a mind to go back to his rooms at _Rue Férou_ , for it's been days he's last had any decent rest, but somehow, apparently, his thoughts have led him back to the garrison. This is strange in and of itself - Athos can't really recall what exactly he's been thinking on the road. Perhaps he's more tired than he has realized.

With nothing to do, he stands where he is for a few moments and observes the courtyard. Few men are passing to and fro, the muffled buzz of conversation filtering through the two ground-floor windows of the refectory. Dinner must have been served. Having no appetite of his own, Athos drops his arms and walks to the bench -their bench- and picks up the decanter to pour himself a cup. He swirls the liquid absently for a few times, then downs it slowly in one go. As he's setting the cup down, his eyes slide towards the seat where Aramis usually sits.

Where he usually _sat_.

Aramis will not be here tomorrow.

Athos sighs and sits down.

/

He has been the one least surprised by Aramis's abrupt goodbye.

Perhaps he's felt it coming, although the thought has never crossed his mind; but he alone shared in the past eighteen months the real weight of Aramis's secrets. He, having once fled the ruins of his own life, understood the need for distance the best. But there's no question in Athos's mind that Aramis is the nobler one of them both.

Whereas he had fled out of sheer cowardice, Aramis has left to seek atonement for his sins.

 _Sinners, the whole of us,_ Athos thinks, despondently bitter as he fills a second glass. He's never harboured any hopes of redemption, but who was he to deny Aramis seeking it for himself?

He drinks the second cup even more slowly than the first, and once it is emptied, he pushes himself to his feet. Turning around, he starts directly towards Aramis's rooms. There is no objective in the move, but a hint of urgency in his steps – waging a short but fierce battle to not give an inch of room to logical thought at the moment, for it would deter him from this purely instinctive, pointless venture – he holds up the lantern he's picked up on the way and pushes the door in.

The barracks room is empty.

It's dark and deserted.

The cot against the wall stands naked; the nail above where once a cross was mounted is now bare. The cracks climbing through the ceiling are still there, as is the spider web stretching in the corner, and the wooden chest under the window. Frowning, Athos takes a few more steps in and holds up the light.

Upon the chest is Aramis's blue sash.

His frown deepens.

It is not forgotten, but clearly left there: cut into two, each folded neatly, placed side by side.

Athos leaves the lantern aside on the windowsill and raises a hesitant hand to touch the fabric. His fingers trail through it, and if his sight suddenly wavers in the dusty light, if the edges of the sash blur and bleed into the wooden surface of the chest, well- no one's there to witness the rush of warm memories in his eyes.

Of seeing Aramis for the first time in that double-storey tavern which has long since burned down, silent and alone, drinking with a steadiness to rival Athos's own*.

Of that first spar with him in the courtyard, prompted to impress Tréville enough to gain admittance to the ranks; the first handshake afterwards and the sparks of interest in Aramis's eyes.

A slight smirk passes through Athos's lips.

What of the countless times he and Porthos had flanked the man in duels with offended husbands and brothers, until the day that honourable practice was banned? The silly, sometimes downright idiotic rescues they would have to mount to get the man out of trouble... The antics he and _Aramis_ had to deploy to get _Porthos_ out of trouble!

His smile fades slowly as one hand goes absently to clasp the back of his arm. There's a long, fresh cut there, still healing, still tender under the leather and shirt and the bandage that Aramis has wrapped.

It would be the last one, then.

The last wound to be stitched by his friend's skilled hand. The scars - how many neat, faded scars do they carry, him and Porthos and even d'Artagnan, of wounds once tended by their friend? Aramis has his signature left over all of them.

The sorrow hovering above swirls and thickens in a gust of emotion at that thought. Wraps itself around him like a flag around a pole. A lump lodges itself uninvitedly in his throat and Athos leans heavily forward against the chest, closing his eyes.

Then comes the morning in the convent over a year ago.

 _"They'll hang you. Then they'll hang me for letting it happen."_

" _Well, more chance we'll be killed here and take it with us to the grave."_

" _That's a comfort!"_

The banter that came as easily as breathing - there's that sting again at the back of Athos's eyes! - His fingers twist into a fist around the fabric and he bows his head, anger rising steadily from somewhere deep down. It's a pointless anger, a thick, smothering smoke; not directed at Aramis, but at the thought of that one fateful night, of that single, _simple_ act that triggered a series of events leading them to this day, to this point, to Aramis's farewell. If Athos has had any faith left in fairness in life, he'd be in close danger of petulance right now.

But he merely sighs again, deeply and carefully through his nose.

Athos is not usually a sentimental man.

He'd once let go of a life, a name, a noble heritage without a backward glance, but he could not let go of a silver locket containing a few dried forget-me-nots. He'd been imprisoned by that chain, carried it for years like a shackle over his heart.

But if forget-me-nots have become a symbol of betrayal and pain, Musketeer blue has set him once more on a noble, worthy path.

Athos opens his eyes and stares at the colour of Aramis's sash. He picks it up and tucks it carefully under his belt. The second one goes into his pocket, to be passed to Porthos the following day. Their final goodbyes have now been said. There is no point in lingering. _At least Aramis is not dead_.

 _Farewell, old friend,_ Athos thinks as he turns on his heel and makes for the door. _May God grant you the peace that you seek._

And can't help but smile again as he pulls the door close.

... _a_ _nd patience and mercy to the brothers in Douai._

 _Stay safe, Aramis._

 _Until our paths cross once again._

* * *

 **Notes:**

 _*Some "scraps" about the trio's first meetings will be posted soon._

 _I hope this wasn't bland - or mushy, God forbid. Thanks for reading._


	10. Chapter 10

_**Edit:** Because this is updated irregularly I keep forgetting to thank the lovely guest reviewers for their comments on previous chapters. So, thank you! I appreciate them._

 _I feel a need to apologize. My 'soon's rarely prove to be actually soon; my sense of time is going through a period of readjustment and I'm losing track of everything these days. This is another scrap turned into a relatively palatable snack (I hope), though it's not the promised 'early meeting' one. That one's still cooking. This one has no specific time frame, but I imagine it relatively early in the series. It's also_ _quite gloomy. (Kindly forgive the mistakes - some things always elude the spell & grammar check.)_

* * *

 **X. Of Stillness.**

"Any change?"

The infirmary.

That's what the Musketeers call this room at the ground floor of the garrison's left wing, just off at the far end of the stables, like a long-forgotten private joke. It's a funny room, long and narrow, with one of its walls so off the course that instead of running parallel to its opposite, it steers off like a drunkard attempting to walk a straight line. There's just enough space at the short end for a window, which is the only thing that saves the room from ending in a triangle. The entire room is like an architectural mistake tried to be swept under the rug: the constant dark and gloom due to its dour lack of sunlight, the unforgivable absence of a fireplace for its unfortunate occupants, and with only three rickety cots with little space between them to maneuver, one cannot think of a room less convenient for use as an infirmary than this. But infirmary it is.

While stationed in Paris, the Musketeers rarely have cause to spend much time in this room. It is a place to manage emergencies more than anything else, incidents of the kind that inevitably occur in a garrison where soldiers of all levels of experience constantly train and spar. It is a room, also, for incidents of the kind that are peculiar to the King's Musketeers, for the men carried in through the courtyard under cover of dark in order to avoid the wrathful eyes of their captain, who will spot bruises from a fight with the Red Guards or wounds from an illegal duel from miles. When illness strikes, the garrison has its own doctor by royal appointment; the Musketeers convalesce in their own barracks rooms. Hence, most days, the infirmary is but a depot for old cots, a few stools and, more suitably, medical supplies. There's a cabinet by the door - one has to wedge himself into the corner and tuck in an elbow in order to have enough space to open it - which holds bandages, spirits, jars of ointments and dried herbs, which Aramis, from time to time, checks to make sure it is well-stocked. A stack of clean cloths and rags are kept wrapped in a bundle, and a wicker basket contains two woollen blankets. The inside of the cabinet is much more reassuring to the eye than its outside.

And it is in this dreary room that Aramis is sitting today, with Porthos lying prone in the middle one of the three cots, his feet shooting off at the end, a grey blanket covering his still form from ankle to chest. A candle burns vivacious and bright by the bedside while rain splutters spitefully on the windowpane.

It was still morning when Porthos was carried in. The day is now nearly spent. Time is dragging itself like an old horse pulling up a heavy cart, and Aramis feels unaccustomedly alone.

"Aramis."

Looking up, he sees Athos standing in the doorway, a plate of food in one hand, doublet missing, no weapons, but a frown deepening on his brow; _any change?_ the question comes back to Aramis. He shakes his head, then lowers it and buries his hands in his hair.

Athos walks in with measured strides and leaves the plate down by the bed; circling around, he comes to stand behind Aramis. A moment later, his hand rests lightly on Aramis's shoulder. It's a perch rather than a landing, but Aramis is very grateful; for a long moment, it is the three of them again, one standing, one sat, one abed - it is important now, for some reason, that it is _still_ the three of them.

"You need to get some sleep."

"I'm fine," Aramis shakes his head.

"Aramis."

"I can't sleep now, Athos, not even if I wanted to." He looks up over his shoulder, glimpses at Athos's face. "D'Artagnan?"

"He's following a lead. Tréville's assigned three teams; the men are out on the streets. They'll find them."

 _Them_ , the perpetrators, of whom Aramis knows, or indeed, guesses nothing, and right now, _cares_ nothing. Because Porthos's stillness is frightening him beyond anything.

The surgeon has said a tentative _maybe_ , nothing more.

" _Aramis._ "

It is only _Aramis,_ but it is _you need to rest_ ; _I'll watch over him and wake you if anything changes, but you must eat and rest._ Athos has his ways of making people confront unwelcome truths. Sometimes it is direct, blunt and unavoidable, almost hostile, even; but that's something Aramis has long learned not to resent, even has come to depend upon. Other times, it suffices for Athos to utter a single word, and the intonation alone makes the omnipresent undeniable.

Aramis does need the rest. He's had the night shift on guard detail at the palace; it was only two hours into his sleep that the commotion had broken out. Sleep is draped heavily over him, pushes down with a vengeance now when brought to attention again. Of course Athos is right. Aramis is content, at least, in the knowledge that at the slightest twitch of Porthos's finger, Athos will wake him up.

So he relents. Hands on his knees, he gets to his feet, turns to move around the bed and only then he notices the stain on Athos's sleeve. Frowning for a moment, he rubs a weary hand down his face as guilt hurls itself at him like a handful of sand - he's forgotten that Athos, too, has been injured this morning.

"Let me see to that."

Athos quirks an eyebrow, then turns his gaze to his own arm. Inspects the limb for a moment, then, because he, too, is perfectly capable of self-preservation, nods his consent.

Aramis moves off to gather a bowl, water and a cloth even as Athos sits and begins to roll up the sleeve. Returning, Aramis leaves the items down and takes over the unwrapping. Peeling away the makeshift bandage, he frowns deeply at the mess of flesh on the inner arm, blood, hours later, still seeping in droplets from the cut. Athos's face is like a statue as he observes the proceeding with disinterest.

"This is bad," Aramis remarks, throwing a glance at his friend. He's not even sure if Athos is aware of how bad this looks - is the man not feeling the pain? But then his thumb traces the edge of the cut and a hiss wrings itself from Athos's lips as the arm jerks; instinct has Aramis's fingers close over the wrist but he, too, winces.

"My apologies." He hastily rises to bring spirits, needle and thread and carries them over, adding, because he can't help it, "You should have come to me sooner. This should have been seen to hours ago." But there's no heat in his words, because if Aramis were in Athos's place, he, too, wouldn't think about his own injury, and not bother anyone with it when Porthos is fighting for his life.

 _Fighting for his life._

Without realizing, his eyes steer again to Porthos, seeing but unable to really feel anything, thinking but still unable to process.

 _Porthos..._

"He'll wake up, Aramis."

Aramis lets go of a breath; doesn't look up.

"We don't know that."

"He _will_ wake up," Athos insists, quiet but firm.

"There is no knowing it, Athos. Willing it will not change the outcome."

Abruptly, Athos's good hand closes on Aramis's wrist and traps the hand on Athos's torn arm. When Aramis looks up, Athos cants his head at him, watching him with clear, narrowed eyes.

"You speak as if it's already fixed."

Aramis blinks, and almost bites his lip as he glimpses the fear nestled deep in Athos's eyes. Swallows and looks away, but the grip on his wrist remains; Athos is waiting, Aramis needs to say something to him but he cannot. He can't find anything real enough to say.

He doesn't have Athos's penchant for holding up truths, especially when _he_ doesn't want to believe them in the first place.

The two men stay like that for a long moment, trapped in each other's grip, locked in a reluctant draw.

Then Athos's grip slowly loosens, and lets go of Aramis's wrist, his arm dropping gently to the side. The other arm remains propped on Aramis's knee, Aramis's hand still closed over his raw wound, and it is another moment before either of them moves.

Silent and still, all three of them, in the gloom of this dark, drunken room.

Natural for Athos; familiar to Aramis, but _this..._ this is altogether wrong on Porthos.

Aramis cleans Athos's wound, sews it with his tiny, neat stitches, and carefully wraps in bandages. His face nearly white by the time it ends, Athos takes a few moments to gather himself, then hands the bowl of food to Aramis and takes over watching Porthos while Aramis rests.

When d'Artagnan arrives, and the candle burns out as the night descends, the rain is still pattering on the window.


	11. Chapter 11

_This is a direct follow-up to the latest Snack, 'Of Stillness'. It is a bit different._

* * *

 **XI. Reverberations**

 **I.**

" _You must wake, Porthos. Porthos. Come on, open your eyes."_

The tapping on his cheek is insistent. Annoyed, he raises a hand to stop it, but has the vague sensation that the limb hasn't moved at all. There's the rough texture of wool under his fingertips; the darkness is soft like a cushion and his eyelids feel as if they're glued shut.

" _Porthos, listen to me, you need to wake up now–"_

Stop it...

" _Aramis."_

" _Come on, Porthos-"_

Leave.. leave me be..

" _Aramis, perhaps we should-"_

" _What? We should what, Athos – it's been three days and he's not so much as twitched! Do you have any other ideas?"_

" _Calm yourself. You are exhausted –"_

" _I am. I am exhausted and I am worried - I am worried about his colour, about how cold he is. Unless he wakes up and tells me himself, I won't know if he's hurting, if he is - "_

" _You have heard what Lemay's said. It can take days to recover from the blood loss, you know this. He lives, Aramis –"_

" _I'm not content with him being alive. I need him awake. I need him alert; I need him –"_

" _Aramis." Athos's hand closes on Aramis's wrist. "I_ _ **know**_ _."_

There is quiet for a few moments.

" _You are not doing anyone any favours. Not least to yourself. Get some air. Talk to D'Artagnan; he must be anxious for news."_

" _... Sometimes, Athos, your calm is infuriating."_ Footsteps.

Hesitation.

" _I apologise. That was unfair."_

" _Go."_

The door closes.

And quiet again.

The way the dark pulls him back is almost gleeful.

/

It is the third day since Porthos has been attacked, and the rain is still washing the windowpane. The garrison is a world of murky grey behind the dirty glass. The infirmary is quiet, save for the muffled howl of the wind and the _crack_ and _pop_ of the wood in the brazier; the smoke is rising to the ceiling and bending there like a magical rope before streaming out the ajar door. In this room of bizarre architectural mistakes, it is a happy coincidence that ventilation, at least, does not conspire to choke.

Porthos is as prone and pale in the middle cot as he has been on the first day. With two stab wounds to his abdomen, he has lost a substantial amount of blood. His skin is still cold to the touch, his heartbeat steady, but rather slow. There is a pair of huge woollen socks covering his feet that are stuck out of the cot, and just as before, he is not alone.

On the cot beside Porthos, near the window that's stuck between the oddly-angled walls, is Athos, sat with a leather-bound volume in his hands, and a distant look in his eyes. He's not reading; his gaze is tracking something in slow motion just in front of the windowpane. There is pooled wax on the windowsill. Athos watches a waterdrop slide down a stiffly moulded curve, a translucent bead upon waxen yellow, and drip, mute, seeping into the weathered wooden frame.

It is sickly.

An abrupt frustration seizing him, he leaves the books aside and rolls over to stand by the bed, in the dead gap between the cot and the window. This _cursed_ room needs an overhaul – or the infirmary must be moved; Captain Tréville has heard Aramis's frustrated complaints at least twice in the last two days, but as Athos finds a large rag and stuffs it harshly into the corner of the window to stop an annoying draft, he agrees full-heartedly with his friend - this room is _accursed_.

And it's wearing their patience thin.

On the other side of the room, sat on the stool with his head bowed over the beads in his hands, Aramis does not react. The calm he's declared infuriating this morning has just snapped, but now, the marksman himself is too drained, too preoccupied with Porthos to care. The fact of the matter is, he and Athos have been on a figurative seesaw these past three days. There's a strain: Aramis has almost never left Porthos's side, whereas Athos's frustration kept growing each time he walked in to find the marksman in the infirmary, immovable from the bedside. It is as if they can no longer negotiate space - neither this room, nor the metaphoric one around each other. Something is off.

And there is no wondering what it is, _who_ it is.

 _Porthos._

Porthos, who's something to Aramis that Athos can never be.

Something to _Athos_ that _Aramis_ can never be.

The centre of their gravity.

 _If he dies..._

 _That_ is the forbidden thought.

 **II.**

 _There's a weight on his arm._

 _There's a weight on his leg._

 _He feels awful._

"... Porthos?"

It is an effort, but Porthos manages to lift his eyelids at last, and his sight is immediately filled with Aramis's pale visage: the goatee and the messy hair, a dishevelled shirt and brown suspenders, a furrow on his brow and rings under his eyes. As his eyes focus, relief steals Aramis's breath, and he all but collapses on the mattress.

"'ey," Porthos greets weakly.

"Welcome back. Welcome back." Leaning forward, Aramis takes Porthos's face into his hands and kisses him soundly on the cheek.

"That bad, eh?"

Aramis swallows, closes his eyes briefly, and rallies himself. "Bad enough. How do you feel? Are you in pain?"

"...nah. Cold." Before the word is out, a second blanket is being draped over him. Porthos glances aside - _Athos_.

"To be expected. Thankfully, nothing a good fire and a hearty meal can't fix. But let me see to that wound first."

Porthos grunts as Aramis peers under the bandages. "You couldn't.. do that when.. I was out?"

"I could.. But then you wouldn't be grunting.. and complaining.. when I find a sore spot, and I wouldn't know if you were hurting."

"So considerate," Porthos grumbles.

"That I am." Satisfied, Aramis pulls down the shirt and smooths the blanket. "The wounds look clean. Let's try to keep them that way. I'll bring you something to eat, but you'll need rest, Porthos. Plenty of it."

"Feels like.. been doin' that.. for days..."

"That may be so, my friend.." A deep sigh empties out the last of Aramis's pent-up stress, leaving him exhausted, and feeling utterly wrecked, "...but at least, now, we all can rest."

Weakly, Porthos plops his hand on Aramis's bent leg. The marksman seizes it quickly into his own hand; then, the pull of sleep is so swift, Porthos doesn't even notice that he fell.

/

When he comes around again, it is with a moan spilling from his lips. There's a deep, stifling ache filling his insides like a palpable thing. Porthos is no stranger to stab wounds but... this is definitely an experience exacerbated. He is given water and he swallows with gratitude, then a wet rag is run over his eyes.

"...'thos?"

"Here, my friend." ( _How did he know it was Athos, not Aramis, without even full cognition of his surroundings?_ ) "How are you?"

"I 'urt."

"Aramis has gone to confer with Lemay. He'll come bearing pain draughts, I'm sure."

"The vile s'uff?"

"The vile stuff," Athos confirms, lips twitching. "But before that, I am ordered to ensure you eat. Otherwise," he mutters in an undertone as he reaches for the tray by the bedside, "I fear Aramis is going to have my hide."

Porthos finally cracks open his eyes.

"Are you really goin' to feed me, 'thos?" he asks exhaustedly.

"Would you rather I fetch the captain?" Athos drawls, one eyebrow arching. Porthos huffs out a breath.

"Here."

The spoon touches his lips, and _damn,_ it tastes good. A deep, appreciative sound rumbles from him as he devours the soup. It is rich and warm, and there's something sad in the fact that this is not an alien experience to Porthos, the first mouthful after prolonged hunger. Closed as his eyes are, he doesn't see the wiry curl that has settled on Athos's lips.

They don't speak until the soup is finished.

When it is, Athos puts the bowl aside, reaches for a cloth and without thinking, runs it lightly through Porthos's beard. _That_ has Porthos open his eyes and stare. Athos's smile falls, his hand faltering on Porthos's chin. A sudden cold rushes to grab him - an icy draft as if a window's been cracked open.

He is caught.

There is something in Porthos's eyes. A question, outermost. A sliver of wonder, wrapped around a tight roll of concern, ready to unfurl. Athos can't look away, or hide - how, in the span of one breath, their situations have reversed, as if Athos is the one lying in that bed and Porthos is the one sat by his side, is a distant point on amazement's horizon - _You alrigh'?_ is the question being asked. Wonder has already slipped away.

(Athos, after all, is not usually a demonstrative man.)

The concern is unfurling, revealing nothing but assurance and calm as Porthos's hand worms up to lay itself on Athos's wrist, settling there in a feeble perch. There's gentleness in the dark eyes that hold the suddenly timid green.

 _I'm 'ere, eh?_

 _I'm alrigh', brother._

 _Everythin's good._

Athos sharply looks away.

It is meant to be steadying, and reassuring, but the direct appeal to his hidden disquiet, wordless, covert and kind as it is, only produces the opposite effect: it stings like an insult instead, salt to his injury, and anger mixes with betrayal to form a thick paste, only to mask deeply ingrained embarrassment, a feeling that thrives in the depths of this man with the cloistered heart.

Because after all these years, that these men – Porthos, Aramis, d'Artagnan – can see, reach and touch the coldest, lightless corners of his soul, frightens Athos in the very basest way – the sheer vulnerability of keeping an open heart.

He pulls his hand from Porthos's grasp, takes the bowl and the cloth and rises to his feet. "Get some rest," he murmurs, "d'Artagnan should be here soon. I'll come by again in the evening."

And without looking back, leaves the room quickly in long strides.

 **III.**

The corridor is chilly. There is an open archway in the outer wall, opening directly into the courtyard; the infirmary door is just under the stairway. The flame of the lantern on the wall flickers wildly in the wind rushing through the opening. The bricks are painted black with soot, and everything is wet: the flagstones, the uneven threshold, the broom left by the wall, the very air Athos breathes. It is _cold_.

Slumping against the door he's just closed, he closes his eyes, bowl in one hand, sleeves rolled, and breathes.

Six years of acquaintance, brotherhood, bleeding and sickness, Porthos has never come this close to death. Never _lingered_ quite so long, and Athos has never been this afraid. Calm – the calm that infuriates Aramis – the exterior is for no one's sake but his own. It is protection. His wall - a lesson hard-learned. And yet, _this_ , there is no denying.

 _These men..._

Athos _loves_ these men.

It scares him to realize, in times like this, just how deeply and how fiercely he does.

He doesn't deny it. He embraces it.

He takes deep breaths to gather his calm.

 _Porthos is awake._

 _I'm alrigh', brother. Everythin's good._

Straightening his back, he opens his eyes - the lieutenant of the Musketeers, Athos of _The Inseperables_ – and steps out into the rain.

/

" _Feeling better?"_

" _Much. You?"_

" _Exponentially. Although, for the sake of our remaining sanity, I propose we forbid Porthos from skirting this close to death in the future."_

" _I agree, my friend... I full-heartedly agree."_

* * *

 **A/N:** Please don't ask me where d'Artagnan is. I really do not know.


	12. Chapter 12

_In which two of our heroes meet for the first time, and Porthos does a fair amount of wondering._

 _This is a tag to the "Bloody Hands" chapter of my Whumptober stories._

* * *

 **XII. A Meeting (of best friends)**

"Any of you Aramis?"

"That's me?" a man with a meticulous chestnut moustache turned to look at him with raised eyebrows. Water dripped from his hands as he lifted them from the basin he was standing over, the voluminous sleeves of his grey shirt rolled all the way up to his elbows.

Porthos gave him a greeting nod. "Monsieur de Tréville needs you."

"The captain?" the Musketeer frowned, reaching for a cloth to dry himself off, "He's not fighting? Where is he?"

"'e was fightin', now he ain't," Porthos returned, not rudely as he looked over in the large tent. Low cots were occupied by wounded soldiers, a surgeon standing over one of them. There was a strange quiet in the tent. A stillness - no groans, whimpers, screams - something that would change soon, Porthos knew; soon - for the real fighting had just begun. An abrupt impatience flared in him at the thought - what was he doin' here, wasting time - there was a battle he needed to fight!

He turned to Aramis again to continue. "He's hurt. Come on, I'll take you to 'im. I left 'im in a tent - don' know whose it is." He started back towards the flap without waiting, but to his annoyance, Aramis did not move.

"Who are you?" he inquired instead, staring intently at Porthos. Suspicion was clear in his deep brown eyes - despite his impatience, Porthos found that he could not fault him for that. No love was yet lost between an infantryman and a King's Musketeer, after all.

"Porthos," he supplied civilly, "infantryman, Captain Morrel's regiment. Look, I don' mean to be rude, but there's a battle I'm supposed to be fightin'. Are you gonna come? 'cause Tréville's bleedin' an' he's asked for you."

"Bleeding?" His frown deepening upon hearing that, Aramis's countenance changed. "Take me to him," he said, grabbing a leather bag from a table nearby. With a nod, Porthos turned to leave, but stopped abruptly when he remembered Tréville's cautionary words. He twirled on his heel but found himself nose to nose with Aramis, who checked himself at the last moment to avoid crashing into Porthos's chest. He took a step back, blinking.

"I forgot," said Porthos, "your captain's said you're to go to 'im when you 'ave the time. Do you 'ave it now?"

Aramis blinked again.

"Excuse me?"

Porthos clamped down on an impatient huff. "I mean are you busy now, do you 'ave time to come check on Monsieur de Tréville. He's insisted you come only when you're free."

"I am free to help my bleeding captain, Monsieur Porthos, as any man of conscience would be," replied Aramis rather perplexedly, staring at Porthos as if trying to determine whether he was being played for some reason, or taken for a fool. But Porthos was surprised to detect a hint of amusement in his eyes as well.

He shrugged. "I'd guess so. 'e was rather particular on that, that's all. Come on then."

Without any more delays, Aramis fell into step with Porthos's broad strides, and the two of them began to navigate the quiet camp towards where Porthos had left the wounded, dazed, and still admittedly impressive Monsieur de Tréville.

"What has happened?" Aramis asked as they strode on, "Where did you find the captain? Is he hurt grievously?"

"Nah, he's not. Sorry - should've said that earlier," Porthos shook his head, "'e's got a head wound, but 'e's talkin' just fine. His hands are cut pretty bad, though. I don' know what happened." He remembered the dead Musketeer he'd found along with Tréville.

"Is he wounded elsewhere?"

"Don't think 'so. I tried to wrap 'is hands but didn' do a very decent job." Focused as he was on his path, he did not see the appraising look Aramis gave him upon that.

"How did you find the captain? Where was he?"

"In the battlefield. I don' know what he was doin' there - " he glanced at the man beside him, "weren't you Musketeers supposed to lead the attack this mornin'? What could Tréville be doin' in the trenches when I found 'im not half an hour ago?"

"If he hasn't told you, then I have no idea, my friend," Aramis muttered, brow creasing once again. In a few moments, they had reached the tent at the edge of the camp.

"He's in 'ere. Monsieur de Tréville?" Porthos pushed the flap and stepped inside.

Tréville was sat at the edge of the cot, frowning at his hands, which were still poorly bandaged with the strips Porthos had improvised from the deceased Musketeer's sash. Now he felt an unexpected stab of guilt at the sight, wondering briefly whether what he'd done had been inappropriate, disrespectful of the man's honour or memory.

He didn't linger on that thought, but if Monsieur de Tréville hadn't made the impressions that he had on him, would such a thought -such a doubt- cross his mind about his habitual pragmatism?

No, it would not.

On the battlefield, men _survived_. Preservance of memory, pride, honour, deference – these were luxuries while in the thick of a fight. One made use of what he could in order to stay alive.

War had a way of making men equals.

And perhaps, that was one reason why Porthos thrived in it.

The Musketeers' captain looked up upon hearing them enter, but before he could rise, Aramis pushed past Porthos and kneeled on the ground before his captain without waiting for acknowledgements.

"Captain?" he inquired, taking in the dried blood on Tréville's hastily-cleaned face with one worried look.

"I am well," said Monsieur de Tréville. The words were soft, but an invisible edge in them stayed Aramis's hands from reaching out. Porthos could not help but frown a bit at the exchange - the concern on Aramis's part and the reassurance on Tréville's were difficult to miss. Yet again he wondered about this man before him, the way he seemed to lead his freshly-formed regiment, and his relationship with the men under his command. One thing was now clear to Porthos: the King's Musketeers were no ordinary regiment.

As Aramis dug into his bag to take out bandages and vials, Tréville's gaze returned to Porthos near the flap.

"That was very quick," he commented, staring at him unnervingly. Once again, Porthos found himself suppressing an urge to fidget.

"I did ask, if that's what you mean - 'e said he 'ad the time." _What the heck_ \- had he just tried to justify himself like a boy before a priest? Monsieur de Tréville seemed to think something along the same lines because he smiled - a proper smile even as he allowed Aramis to take his wrist and turn one lacerated palm upwards to examine it.

"I am sure you did. Thank you again, Porthos. I would shake your hand, but..."

"I did nothin', Monsieur," Porthos shook his head again. He looked at Aramis kneeling on the ground peering into his captain's wound, and randomly wondered what Tréville had meant when he'd said Aramis had 'nimble hands'. He'd said Aramis was not a medic. Yet there was an air of focused confidence about him that struck Porthos as rather remarkable - he knew a seasoned soldier when he saw one, and Aramis, he felt, was definitely one.

Not all the Musketeers were quite as 'green' in the battlefield as most of Porthos's comrades believed them to be, it seemed.

"I should return to the field." Because he'd felt awkward enough for a lifetime in the half-hour he'd spent in Tréville's presence. He gave a departing nod; Tréville returned the gesture, and Aramis looked up briefly from his work.

"Well met, Porthos," he said, "God go with you."

Porthos nodded at him, turned and left the tent with long strides in order to return to the field. Fifteen minutes later, all thought of the Musketeers was gone from his mind, and his sole focus had become, once again, to survive.

* * *

 _Don't forget to let me know how it tastes! It's been a while since I last cooked up a snack, after all. :)_


	13. Chapter 13

_I need to clear out the "scraps" in my fanfiction folder because they are haunting me. This is a tag to S2 Ep.8, "The Prodigal Father"._

* * *

 **XIII. These Brothers of Mine**

The ride back to the garrison is too heavy, too quiet.

The pauldron is once again back on Porthos's broad shoulder, where it belongs, and Porthos sits tall and proud upon his horse. But there's a crease on his brow, and the look in his eyes is immeasurably sad.

Without a single word spoken aloud, the five men reach the garrison in a solemn procession, and dismount wearily. The captain catches Porthos's eye as Jacques takes the horses away, an unspoken communication passing between them; then Tréville nods, Porthos tilts his chin, and the captain climbs the steps to his office with the weary steps of an old man. One by one, the Inseparables file from the courtyard into the refectory.

It is blessedly cool, invitingly empty, and fittingly quiet.

They sit themselves around a table, and Aramis's hand brushes against Porthos's arm as he passes by to bring the bottles of wine. They sit, and they sip, and ruminate.

Aramis is the first to speak, his voice soft, understanding.

"This has been a hard few days for you."

Porthos nods with an agreeing _hmm_ , idly pushing and pulling the tankard between his hands with calloused fingertips. Much weighs on his breast, his heart is full to the brim; he keeps his eyes fixed on the wine and never raises them. Silence presses down on them again, long and stiff and hard.

Every line spoken afterwards breaks it like snapping branches underfoot.

"They were like us, once," says Porthos, eyes on his cup, "Tréville told me. Not in so many words, but you could tell. Him and de Foix and Belgard." He raises his eyes to Aramis. "The two of 'em, as thick as you an' me."

One blink, two blinks, and Aramis looks down.

(He has a _son._ )

Porthos's gaze turns slowly towards Athos, then to D'Artagnan before it comes back to rest down on his cup again. D'Artagnan, across from him, vigorously shakes his head.

"None of us would ever do such a thing to one another - _kidnap_ his child, leave him on the streets - Not even to keep a promise."

"Would you not?" Athos counters, one eyebrow mildly-raised.

"I wouldn't make a promise like that and neither would any of you!"

"Neither did Tréville or de Foix," Athos points out to him, "But a promise to help one another? To look out for each other, no matter what?" The ghost of a smile tugs at his lips as he takes another sip from his glass, his eyes on d'Artagnan fond, sad, and indulgent.

"One for all," murmurs Aramis, his finger tracing a burn mark on the wood.

d'Artagnan, bless him, shakes his head stubbornly; taking a swig of his wine, he sits back and crosses his arms. "I'm sorry, Porthos- I don't think I could be so quick to forgive my father if he'd done what Belgard did to you."

"Forgive 'im?" Porthos looks up in surprise, and surprise quickly turns into a dangerous storm he glares at the Gascon, "Nah," he says forcefully, "No. I _might_ 'ave forgiven 'im for my part - God knows I was willin' before I met 'im - but what he did to my mother?" His fingers clench around the tankard as he drops his suddenly brimming gaze, and _now_ d'Artagnan regrets having spoken in the first place; Athos reaches to lay his hand on Porthos's wrist and slowly, gradually, Porthos's knuckles return to their normal colour.

d'Artagnan breathes.

"All for one," Porthos rumbles, composed once again. But there's a hint of bitterness for the first time since the beginning of this whole debacle with Belgard - he looks up and the three men are transfixed by him.

"Promise me somethin'," he demands. "Promise me you'll do righ' by one another, _even if it means breakin' our oath._ Because some things are far more precious than our honour; _some things..._ " he breaks off, then takes a long breath through his nose, "promise me that you won't let it get in the way."

What is _honour_ when compared to family?

What is it, when compared to brotherhood?

Honour... what a hindrance, what a constraint sometimes!

Athos's hand slides off Porthos's wrist.

Porthos catches it without turning to look, the gesture between them so subtly and smoothly reversed, the ease of it is beautiful. Porthos continues.

"If, God willin', any of you marry an' have a child an' a family of your own I promise you; your gal, your child- they're _mine_ to protect. I'll look after 'em, I'll protect 'em like my own. I know we're not stupid," he shakes his head, heedless of the wetness that is now on his face - "I know none of you would ever ask one another somethin' like Belgard did to the captain. We're not selfish, _heartless_ bastards but - " he's rushing now - "I bet neither Tréville nor de Foix ever expected Belgard to ask 'em for such a thin' either but they did it anyway - "

" _Porthos._ " Aramis seizes Porthos's hand fiercely and grips it, and stares so hard at him that Porthos has to meet his gaze, and Aramis says, as only one brother can make an oath to another, " _I promise_."

(And if there is hypocrisy in that, giving that promise but denying his brothers to do the same for him _because_ _he can't tell them he has a son -_ he _bloody_ doesn't care.)

"We'll be better," d'Artagnan promises, all Gascon determination as he reaches across the table to lay his hand on Aramis and Porthos's, "We _are_ better, Porthos - we _never_ would."

"No," Athos agrees softly, "we wouldn't."

He places his hand on top of the others' and completes the lock of brotherhood.

 _One for all._

At that moment, they may be four bodies, but they are but one soul.*

Athos's eyes find Aramis's across the table, - d'Artagnan notices it but doesn't understand it-, but Aramis does, and he ducks his head lest anyone notices the moisture in his eyes.

(Damned if he knows whether what Athos means is a mere reaffirmation of the obvious - that he will protect the Dauphin even if it costs him his life because he is a Musketeer and it is his duty - or whether there is something hidden, far more dangerous, far more intimate and precious in there; he doesn't care - something loosens gloriously in his chest and it's all he can do to not slump forward a bit– the lightness of a burden shared.)

Porthos has drawn them into this moment, and Porthos now releases them.

"Righ' then."

He pushes his chair back to stand and wipes a hand down his face; casting a quick, grateful glance at his friends, he gives them a final nod and takes his leave. An entire life needs to be re-evaluated this evening, to be made sense of under the light of recent revelations. But he won't stay bitter for too long.

When there are three left in the refectory instead of the four, D'Artagnan watches Athos as Athos watches Aramis, who, in turn, avoids both of their eyes. Silence turns nearly strained until he, too, rises, gathers the empty bottle and cups and follows Porthos out.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on between you and Aramis?" d'Artagnan asks as soon as the marksman is out of sight. The non-committal look he receives in lieu of an answer is not a surprise at all. With a shake of his head and a sigh of his own, he, too, stands up.

"Do you want me to keep you company?"

"I am well," Athos returns, grateful for the offer nevertheless. D'Artagnan nods.

"See you tomorrow."

And the Gascon, too, leaves, and Athos is left alone in the refectory, the well-stocked cellar of the garrison at his disposal, and him, perfectly at home in a long day's leftover melancholy.

* * *

*"These four men, united by brotherly bonds, were in fact but one soul." - Alexandre Dumas, The Three Musketeers


	14. Chapter 14

_Dear readers,_ _I'm so exhausted these days I can hardly turn a "scrap" into a "snack", let alone pick up my Whumptober series. In the name of trying to keep some kind of posting momentum -for I fear I am close to dropping out of this fandom if I don't- here's another something old I tried to make legible: a pre-series piece of writing in which Athos shares something precious with Aramis and Porthos._

 _(Also - fourteen snacks. Look at that!)_

 _Any recognizable lines are directly from the show; in this case, from Series 1, Episode 1._

* * *

 **XIV. Of Trust and Precious Starts**

They're in a secluded corner of a dimly-lit tavern. It is very late and Athos is deep in his cups.

He's gotten more and more silent, more and more morose with each sip, gulp and bottle, but he is well aware of the unvoiced curiosity regarding his locket, and some sober part of him appreciates that Aramis and Porthos have the decency to not ask him about it. It is one of the many things that he appreciates; one more thing added to his pile of accumulated appreciations about Aramis and Porthos, and it is this grateful part of him that yields, bends a little, and offers an opening - just a little, just a little.

"I was married," he murmurs, cold and removed and staring resolutely down, as if that's the only way he can ever speak about himself.

Aramis and Porthos exchange a long glance.

They both know that there's only one probable answer to the question they have now, but voicing it nevertheless, at this point, has less to do with this particular conversation than it has with the snowball they had nudged at the beginning of this acquaintance, which has long gained its own momentum, rolling steadily downhill towards the valley of friendship and brotherhood that is its final aim.

So the question itself comes quickly and easily: "What happened?"

Athos fixes his gaze on Aramis as he raises his glass to his lips, and keeps it there while he takes a long, slow sip. Then he puts the cup down, closes his elegant fingers around the stem and looks up.

"She died."

The words are like a sudden sword thrust. The opening, snapping shut.

And Athos's eyes flash over them as if daring the two men to come closer.

Smart men as they are, they don't.

Porthos shakes his head from side to side even as Aramis runs a hand through his hair, feeling his own heart bend a little for the broken, mourning man before him. That is what it is - the mood that Aramis hasn't been able to name so far – mourning. What has just been revealed (a piece of Athos's heart, pierced, swung wildly at the tip of a blade in a maddened craze of bottomless despair) is more than enough to explain the dark moods that haunt the swordsman, the despair that clings and drips from him like black tar. Surely Athos cannot have been married for many years - unless he'd been wedded very young indeed - but the death of a beloved wife explains his search for a new way of life, a foothold on a steady piece of ground. Aramis feels something in his chest open up even more towards Athos, welcoming him even more warmly into the comfort of the brotherhood that has been his home for so long; for he sees the _need_ , the desperate need to be loved again, even if it would be the last thing Athos would understand or admit, least of all to himself.

They don't ever broach the subject again, until a young man from Gascony casually observes the Musketeer lieutenant he's just helped save from execution in one of their usual haunts, and quickly notes the third of Athos's most recognizable traits after his nobility and swordsmanship – the viscid melancholy with which he drinks.

"What's wrong with him, anyway?"

"Mm, woman trouble." Porthos's reply is so off-handed, one might think Athos's woes are the talk of all Paris anyhow; what is remarkable though, is the way he and Aramis fall into instinctive rapport without even needing to share a glance.

"'There was someone special once; she died,'" Aramis supplies promptly, "that's all he ever said." Better to stop the Gascon from the start than risk him going around bringing this subject up.

"I better stay behind," Porthos muses, "'e'll need someone to carry 'im home." Now a brief look passing between them - _nicely handled_ \- and the marksman pushes himself to his feet and picks up his hat.

"Do you need somewhere to stay?"

"Nah, I have a place."

"In the arms of Madame Bonacieux?"

And the subject is expertly changed.

What little information Aramis has just divulged, enough of the little Athos had trusted them with years ago while retaining the part of it that only Athos has the right to share, is more than satisfactory for the young Gascon for this time.

None of them can know, of course, that in a matter of mere weeks, Athos's past will rise from the ruins of his ancestral home, and pull them all into a twisted web that's woven around broken souls and tortured hearts.


	15. Chapter 15

_Thematic continuation with the last Snack, though this time with **w**_ _ **arning** for dark thoughts._

 _(I have already apologised to Athos.)_

* * *

 **XV. A Rediscovery of Taste**

It hurts, what he's doing to himself. Not the drinking, not the deliberate wasting of body and mind - they're merely symptoms of what he's going through. The cause and the ailment is self-hatred.

The wine, contrary to the assumptions of a majority, does not bring forgetfulness, let alone condolences. The wine he chooses to drink is fit only for the most wretched drunkard who is no longer capable of taste. Athos is nowhere near that state and that is the entire point of it. His wine is bitter and sour, sticking inside his mouth and coating his tongue in a disgusting layer of brewery ineptitude: gone are the fine vintages he's grown to enjoy, gone is the self-allowance to _feel_ joy. There is nothing indulgent in the way he drinks.

It is with a purposefully-twisted move that he reaches for a new bottle to wash down the lingering taste of the previous. He pulls the cork open in a spike of malignant cruelty; pours the liquid into the cup fully aware, and intently wicked in the anticipation of how awful it is going to be. He squashes the feeble voice of reason in his head heeding him to stop, enough, stop; with a dark sneer he tips the cup back up and _gulp-gulp-gulps_ it all in one go, feeling a meek satisfaction at the self-harm furthered when it's all gone. Lord, it _is_ awful. Not just the taste, but the way the liquid pools in his stomach, weighs and sloshes and presses against his bladder; the alcohol goes straight to his head, taking his vision up for a _chaconne_ and disarming him in more ways than he is aware of. This is the state he deliberately puts himself in. Because _this_ , this deplorable vision of a man, sprawled on a chair in some sordid tavern he doesn't even know the name of, with the gaunt, flushed face and cross, glassy eyes, red stains all the way down his once-white shirt and the cuffs, _this_ is his true self. This nobody, unmarked by either title or uniform, unmarked save for the repugnance his very state of being provokes, is truly him.

He is baring himself to the world to be seen.

(He is _daring_ the world to see what he sees.)

He had once bared himself to a girl with green eyes who had brought him to ruin. Now he is bare again, but with an odd kind of brazenness that is challenging the world: what does he have left to lose? His heart is already broken, left in shatters under a tree in Pinon; his soul is in tethers, he will not find a priest so devout as to take it on. He hasn't counted on a man named Porthos, and another one called Aramis, or a boy from Gascony to respond, and thoroughly beat him in a game he'd thought his own.

But not yet. It is too soon, too raw, too wild - he will not allow himself to be helped. Within ever-thickening walls it is getting colder and colder, and when those hands reach, Athos lashes at them from the inside with dark glares and stiff postures and simple avoidance. He will not tolerate trespassers on his own ground.

 _There is nothing to salvage here._

Leave him be - this is what he deserves.

(Leave him _be_ _–_ how _dare_ you intervene?)

 _I did not ask for your brotherhood._

 _Don't_ you _dare._

/

Yet he'll still wake up to hands holding him, steadying him and caring for him - nothing too gentle, no sign of _pity_ ; grunting and cursing and manhandling - (he won't make it easy) - but still, _there_. Despite the growls from deep in his throat, the acrid spite and the attempts to push them away, he will not be let go. Why, _why_ , _why?_ Dear _God_ , why will they not _go?_

What kind of punishment is this?

These hands are causing a pain he'd thought himself incapable of feeling anymore!

These hands – they're stoking a fire of rebellion within him. The flame trying so valiantly to leap to life is _painful_ ; it hurts so much that it makes Athos want to weep and beg them to stop, please, stop. They're waking a part of him that, despite his most ruthless efforts, is beginning to _respond_. Like a beaten dog offering its belly to the first kind, petting hand it finds, pitiful and pathetic, it is taking it and relishing it and wishing for _more_. That is _disgusting_.

In his more sober moments – in his less blink-drunk moments - the loathing the recollection of that yearning brings is outright despicable.

Pity. That is the cause of it all. Even from himself, that is the one thing he definitely, absolutely will not take: there's nothing worthy of it in him. To be _seen_ as _susceptible_ to it is, simply put, unacceptable.

(Perhaps that is how they find a way through his defence after all. Because there is never any pity in the way Porthos and Aramis approach him, and Athos has never been prepared for kindliness.)

Years later, when he's long pulled himself up and out of those rank depths, re-established himself on firm ground and begun to take stability as something that is granted again, he looks back, and sees that having searched for something to anchor himself to in the first place, having tied himself to the Musketeers all those years ago _just for something to do_ , the part of him that he had so valiantly tried to murder then, had sown the seeds of its own victory even before he had set down on that path.

He has Porthos, Aramis and d'Artagnan to thank for having gradually regained his taste for wine. Over time and with the wondrous support of those men, he'd slowly begun to allow himself to feel pleasure again.

The pleasure he'd found not in fine wine, but in the company he'd had with which to share it, was something entirely else.


End file.
